


Addiction, Remission and Relapse

by JadedQuill



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean POV, Demon Dean Winchester, Episode: s09e11 First Born, Episode: s09e16 Blade Runners, Episode: s09e18 Meta Fiction, Episode: s10e03 Soul Survivor, Episode: s10e09 The Things We Left Behind, Episode: s10e11 There's No Place Like Home, Episode: s10e14 The Executioner's Song, Episode: s10e18 Book of the Damned, Gen, M/M, Mark of Cain, Minor Character Death, The Darkness - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-11-29 02:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11431446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadedQuill/pseuds/JadedQuill
Summary: The Mark is pure, primal darkness. It isn’t an evil born of agony, or a madman’s sadism. The Mark is a promise of bloodshed, power, death and destruction. It is massive, impossible, and for a moment Dean feels like ant trying to consume the sun.- Dean's struggle with the Mark of Cain, diverging from canon at S10E18: Book of the Damned.





	1. Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> My first SPN fic!

Cain had been a good man with good intentions when he took the Mark of Cain from Lucifer, at least according to his side of the story. Dean doesn’t know if that’s true, but he doesn’t have any way to verify.

As soon as Dean grasps Cain’s arm, and the transfer begins, Dean knows this won’t end well. The Mark’s red veins burn with an impossible fire. Dean knows how to process pain, a tour in hell will do that for you, but this is something more than pain.

The Mark is pure, primal darkness. It isn’t an evil born of agony, or a madman’s sadism. The mark is a promise of bloodshed, power, death and destruction. It is massive, impossible, and for a moment Dean feels like ant trying to consume the sun.

And then it greets him like a lover – a caress, a promise - and settles quietly into the scar now burned into his arm.

The feeling is so incomprehensible that he represses it almost immediately. All he is left with, as breath returns to his lungs, is that this will almost certainly be the death of him.

Fortunately, Dean is used to repressing, getting the job done.

“I’m fine,” he manages. Crowley is looking at him with what might almost be concern, and that’s just _wrong_. “Alright, where did you stash the damn Blade?”

To stay alive you move forward, never look back.

Much later, drenched in blood and filled with regret, he realizes that if he’d known where the Mark would lead him, he never would have taken the damn thing.

 

\---

 

Getting captured by Magnus is a little humiliating, mostly because of the creepy zoo comments. Dean is used to being tied up by monsters that intended to kill him, eat him, whatever. Being told that he is going to spend eternity as a museum artifact, well that forms a lump in his throat. A lump that, naturally, he disguises with bravado and insults.

When Magnus presses the First Blade to Dean’s palm, there is no disguising how he feels.

The Blade, it feels instantly like an extension of Dean’s arm, his soul. The Mark calls out through his flesh, glows red hot, and sends angry veins reaching out in triumph. At once Dean is utterly lost. It is fire and blood, lust and power and there is a moment of pure joy that seems to come from the Blade, the Mark, and somewhere deep inside of Dean all at once. It is a moment better than any sex he’s ever had, and the most terrifying sensation he’s ever experienced.

The Blade and the Mark call out to him to maim, kill, destroy. It is a rush of violence and power and so overwhelming that his hand spasms and he drops the blade without meaning to. The moment it leaves his hand he regrets it, needs it back, but at the same time his head clears and he realizes just how absolutely screwed he is.

“Good,” says Magnus as he walks the Blade away. “Next time, it’ll be easier. You’ll get used to the feelings, even welcome them.”

He has no idea.

Already Dean can feel the itch. The Mark throbs angrily at being denied and Dean simultaneously wants to wrap his fingers once more around the hilt, and desperately wants to run as far from that cursed jawbone as he possibly can.

Controlling it would be like harnessing a storm. As a mosquito. With weights tied to his limbs.

Dean had always wondered how Sam had beaten down Lucifer long enough to jump into the cage. Sure, brotherly love and all that, but _how_? He had quietly suspected that if their situations were reversed the world would have been engulfed in the flames of the apocalypse. Jimmy Novak had once described housing Castiel as being chained to a comet, Lucifer had to be so much worse. And this? This feels like a dark, primal force of nature is going to chew him up and spit him out.

Sure, Dean isn’t one to back down from a fight, but he’s already doubting his ability to win this one and the fight hasn’t even really begun.

-

Dean doesn’t need the Mark to want Magnus dead. As soon as that asshole started cutting on Sam his breaths were numbered. So when Crowley appears, like a weird demonic miracle, and frees Dean from his chains, well, there is no hesitation. The room is full of weapons but Dean grabs for the Blade without thinking, lops Magnus’s head off with one firm swing, and the Blade and the Mark _sing_ as they and Dean take their first life together.

They wrap their way around and through him, heating his blood, stoking his fury, and there before him is Crowley. Crowley, King of Hell, demon that they should have killed a long fucking time ago. Why should he live past today?

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is soft, concerned, so far removed from the bloodlust filling Dean’s veins. The Mark burns with power, offers him everything if only Dean keeps killing. Crowley deserves to die, and the power shows him, vividly, how good it would be to separate Crowley’s head from his shoulders.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice still soft, but insistent. “Hey, it’s over. He’s dead.”

The Blade sinks itself deeper into Dean’s heart. It whispers to him, cajoles him, seduces him. _Together we are unstoppable_. It calls to him with all the lure of purgatory: offering a purity of violence, and a freedom from consequence.

“Drop the blade Dean.” Sam’s voice is distant, fading.

Why would he ever let go? Everything he ever wanted is already his. He could kill Abaddon with ease, he knows at once. Even Metatron would kneel before him, pay for what he did to Cas, to Kevin, to Sam.

“Dean!”

_Sam._

Dean feels a hitch of sanity, reality. He pulls his eyes from the Blade to see Sam, bound and bleeding and afraid not for himself, but for Dean.

“Drop the blade.”

And it’s _Sam_ , how could he ever say no to Sam?

Dean’s hand spasms once more, the Blade falls from his grasp, and instantly the tentacles of rage and bloodlust loosen their grip and fall to the ground along with the jawbone.

Screwed. He is so very screwed. 

 

\---

 

Drinking and repression are two of Dean’s oldest friends. So when he realized just how great a burden the Mark came with… Well they sure seemed like good ideas.

On the one hand Dean should be as focused on finding Abaddon as he pretends he is to Sam. On the other hand, the visions of carving her heart out, bathing in her blood… It isn’t the violence that scares him. Dean’s life has been violence in one way or another since Azazel dropped by to poison Sammy and roast their mom on the ceiling.

No, it’s the emotions that come with the visions that send Dean to the bottom of the bottle.

It feels an awful lot like hell, like after he jumped off that rack and started ripping other souls apart. A part of him had loved every minute of it, but there was always the knowledge at the back of his mind that he was doing this because he had to, because he was too weak to endure any more. Sure, he’d learned to live with that thanks to Sam and Cas, even if he’d never forgiven himself. Sometimes, torturing demons for information, he knows he still enjoys it a little too much; but they’re demons, they deserve it, and later he just hates himself just a little more. After all, it can never compare to the ten years he spent ripping people apart in the pit.

This is somehow more though, different. The pull towards blood and chaos is laced with seductive promises of just how damn good it will feel to surrender to his darkest urges. The promise of power isn’t in exchange for relief, it’s in appeal to that part of Dean that has always been a killer. Dean knows that he could love where the Mark wants to take him, sometimes thinks it’s not all that different from who he already is, and that is what terrifies him more than anything. It’s a slippery slope, but God it would feel good to throw himself down it.

 

\---

 

Dean sits on the floor, trying to concentrate on his breathing. The Mark throbs, more than it has since he held the First Blade. Killing Gadreel, it’s all he wants to do. It’s all the Mark wants him to do. He knows it’s the wrong move. Gadreel wants to die, death wouldn’t be punishment enough. Plus, Gadreel is their only connection to Metatron.

The Mark wants blood, _Dean_ wants blood, so he drops the blade and wails on Gadreel with fists instead. With every bit of broken flesh, every spurt of blood, every grunt of pain, Dean feels his fears, his worries, melting away. He feels the Mark purring with approval– but still it wants more.

_We need information._

_I need to kill him._

_We need information._

_I need to see the light pour from his eyes and charcoal wings on the ground._

When Sam returns Dean knows he’s not thinking straight, being defensive is automatic and natural and hey, Gadreel is still alive. Dean’s mouth operates mostly of its own accord, and he knows he’s far too close to babbling, but the point is that Gadreel is still alive. Not dead. No matter how much Dean wants him erased from existence.

“Dean listen,” Sam says. “Metatron has Cas. He’s offering up a trade.”

The Mark flares up, angry at the though of being denied its kill. But this is _Cas_. But Gadreel is right there and has so much to pay for.

 _You can’t trust Metatron._ Dean doesn’t know if it’s the Mark or his own common sense chiming in, so he says it out loud, testing the words in his mouth.

“We can’t trust Metatron.”

“I know that, obviously,” Sam replies. “Look, this is the first time we’re gonna know for sure where Metatron is. Let’s take Gadreel to the meet-up, make the exchange, and then trap Metatron.”

The logic makes a soothing kind of sense, and the Mark doesn’t protest too loudly. They can delay killing Gadreel, especially if it means killing Metatron too. Dean wants that dick dead just as badly, for what he did to Cas alone.

_Cas._

If they don’t do this Metatron will kill Cas, and there’s no way Dean’s going to let that happen. Not on his watch. He’d trade killing Gadreel for saving Cas in a heartbeat, how had he even hesitated? 

-

Things go about as well as they ever do for Team Free Will.

Cas is back and understanding Star Wars references, which is awesome if confusing. Despite losing Gadreel and Metatron, the Mark is oddly silent. Metatron is practically God now, and damn if that isn’t a blow, but for the moment Dean doesn’t feel like he’s being torn in two. Him, Sam, Cas, standing beside Baby in some motel parking lot, it’s about as normal as his life ever gets.

Then Cas gives him that look, the one that makes Dean feel like the angel is seeing through to every part of him, laying his soul bare. It’s a look that makes Dean uncomfortable on a good day, for reasons he tries not to think about, but today it causes panic to start rising in his gut.

Cas doesn’t know what Dean’s done. He doesn’t know about the Mark and Cain, the bloodlust, that ache of emptiness that is just dying to be filled by the First Blade. Dean doesn’t want Cas to know what he’s done, how he’s tainted now. Cas has bigger problems and besides, if Cas wanted nothing to do with him before, well he certainly won’t now.

Not that these are things Dean thinks of.

_Shut up brain._

It’s cowardly, but Dean’s first instinct is to run. He almost thinks he’s going to get away with it too, until Cas grabs his arm. It doesn’t even take that stupid angelic strength of his, broken angel though he is. No, the instant Cas grabs hold Dean stops fighting, barely flinching as Cas tugs up Dean’s sleeve, exposing the truth.

There’s a moment where their eyes meet: Cas’s stupid blue eyes full of realization, Dean’s with shame followed by an instant wall of defensiveness.

“What have you _done_?” Cas asks, even though he clearly already knows the answer. There’s a disappointment to his voice that absolutely doesn’t feel like a dagger in Dean’s chest. Dean doesn’t need Cas to say anything to know how disappointed the angel is. Disappointment directed at Dean, well that’s nothing new. Besides, Cas has been plenty disgusted with Dean before. Why not keep the streak going?

“It’s a means to an end,” Dean justifies, knowing he has to say something.

“Dammit, Dean,” Cas growls out.

Dean throws up his best “I don’t have to justify myself to anyone” face, but Cas is giving him that _look_ and Dean can’t handle it for long. He turns desperately to Sam for help, backup, but Sam isn’t going to be any use. He’s got that set to his jaw that Dean knows means his brother agrees that taking on the Mark of Cain was a stupid, stupid idea.

Well Sam doesn’t get a say, and neither does Cas. No one else had any idea how to take out Abaddon. So Dean does what he does best. He focuses on the task at hand.

“Look, you find heaven, you drop a dime,” he says, all business. “Meantime I’ve got a knight to kill.”

The Mark thrums once more, pleased with the idea. Dean throws himself into the Impala and waits impatiently for Sam to slide into the passenger seat. He throws his baby into gear, and lets the purr of the engine drown everything else out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, criticism and kudos are love.
> 
> This is probably the shortest chapter by a lot. 
> 
> The next two chapters will come out on a weekly basis. Past that depends on how things go.
> 
> I'm new to AO3, so tag suggestions are cool too. All the other fics I have up here were transferred from LJ.


	2. Remission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up a demon, Dean’s surprised how much he still feels like himself. Black eyes, demonic strength, and no cares in the world, but he’s still him in every other way that matters. He still loves dive bars, drinking, fucking and now he can sing karaoke without feeling the slightest bit self-conscious. In fact, he’s rather enjoying singing as far off key as he can manage. Every boo and groan sends a tingle of delight up his spine.
> 
> Ok, maybe that’s more demon than Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skip a number of episodes related to the Mark of Cain because the show covers it well enough that I don't feel the need to expand. Also, my choices have to do with where this fic is headed when it diverges from canon next chapter.

Waking up a demon, Dean’s surprised how much he still feels like himself. Black eyes, demonic strength, and no cares in the world, but he’s still him in every other way that matters. He still loves dive bars, drinking, fucking and now he can sing karaoke without feeling the slightest bit self-conscious. In fact, he’s rather enjoying singing as far off key as he can manage. Every boo and groan sends a tingle of delight up his spine.

Ok, maybe that’s more demon than Dean.

He gets into brawls and the Mark still wants blood but Dean is still reluctant to give it. He justifies his violence by picking fights with scum, like men who abuse their women, and he knows that the plus side to letting Crowley tag along is that he’ll play the dutiful “best bud” role and clean up Dean’s messes. As long as Crowley wants Dean all to himself, Sam and Cas will have a bitch of a time finding him. Which is all to the good, because Dean can’t bring himself to care about them anymore. At the same time, though, he doesn’t exactly want to kill them.

The Mark throbs, upset that anyone is off limits, but the dark power will be satisfied enough with any blood, for now.

Not that Dean is making it easy, because that’s just not him.

Once Crowley stopped throwing demons at him - and if Dean could still feel shame he might be ashamed he didn’t work out Crowley was behind them to begin with – Dean can feel himself losing control. Not in a sense that he feels guilty about, because guilt was so last season, but in that building of rage, anger and impending violence that puts everyone in his path in danger.

It’s not that he cares, really, who he hurts. There are no feelings associated with it. All Dean feels is what he’s pretty sure is typical demon stuff. He’s been on this path once before. Once you hop off that rack, after you’ve been flayed so far down that your soul starts to become nothing but fire and smoke and pain, all you want is to make others feel what you felt. You inflict pain on others so that you don’t have to hurt anymore.

Dean’s got no problem with causing pain. Old him used to agonize about it, but he’s pretty much been part demon since he accepted Alistair’s offer. As a demon, weightless as the black smoke of his insides, inflicting pain is fun.

Murder though, demon or not, there’s no point in it unless there’s, you know, a point to it.

Crowley accuses him of still being human, or failing to pick a side, but Dean thinks it’s something more intrinsic than that. Demons are all demons, but the stronger ones always have their quirks, remnants of who they once were. Or maybe demons like Meg and angels like Castiel can meander closer to humanity the longer they’re exposed to it.

Point is, Dean’s a stubborn bastard, and ya it feels good – so fucking good - to kill, sate the mark, scratch that itch, feed the addiction; but, Dean still wants it to be on his terms, no one else’s.

\--

And then he’d been cured.

The instant his humanity returned he wanted to die. More than that, he wanted what Anna had once promised to do to Sam: torn apart, atoms scattered across the universe. The nothingness sounds amazing.

Which is probably why he doesn’t deserve it.

Everything else aside – and that’s a lot of everything to put aside – he’d tried to kill _Sam_. He’d been human enough to escape the devil’s trap and he’d still planned to kill Sam, to enjoy it.

Stalking Sam through the bunker, he’d fucking loved it.

If Cas hadn’t shown up… Even if Sam could have slit Dean’s throat, even with Ruby’s knife, Dean knew it wouldn’t kill him, couldn’t kill him. As a demon Dean had healed in a way he’d never seen before. Of course, aside from Cain, there’d never been a demon like him. Well, at least none that Dean had ever heard about.

If Cas hadn’t arrived when he had, Sam wouldn’t have _just_ been dead at his feet. The Mark of Cain got its reputation from the very first fratricide. The Mark would have filled him with so much joy that Dean would have bathed in Sam’s blood. The overkill on Abaddon would have paled in comparison.

In the instant before Cas grabbed him, when Sam dropped his guard and Dean’s eyes went black, he saw what he was about to do in vivid detail. He could taste Sam’s blood on his lips.

Dean still could.

When he came back to himself, some after-effect of the ritual, he felt good, cleansed. For a few amazing seconds he forgot everything that happened, everything he’d done, been planning to do.

Then Sam hit him with the holy water. _Holy water?_ He remembered just how badly that shit had burned, and the rest started pouring back in. It was dull, at first, and then far, far too vivid.

That was the moment he wished they'd killed him instead.

Sam and Cas looked so god damned happy. Smiling in a way that that Dean hardly ever saw on Sam- and on Cas? Maybe not since they stopped the Apocalypse.

And Dean doesn’t deserve that. _They have no idea._

Dean sits in his room, staring at old photos, trying to wipe away the hell that rests behind his eyelids. Sam had been hovering, and even though he was smart enough not to ask Dean how he was feeing – apparently not being a demon was enough for today – Dean couldn’t stand the unspoken words, and he especially couldn’t stand the way that every time he looked at Sam all he could see was his broken, mangled corpse. So Dean lied, saying he was hungry. Sam looked positively fucking delighted, babbled something about making a supply run and pie, and was out the door.

It gives him a few minutes of peace, until Cas knocks.

-

There’s no image of Cas’s mangled body burned onto Dean’s brain. And it really doesn’t hurt that the first thing he says is “You look terrible,” in a way that is just so thoroughly _Cas_.

“You know it wouldn’t kill you to lie every now and then,” Dean replies. Just because he’s not seeing red at the moment doesn’t mean he feels great. And who the hell would expect him to?

“No, it wouldn’t kill me. I just- you- “Cas sounds like he is looking for words that Dean can’t handle right now; and frankly Cas being Cas, and looking strong, healthy, and about as happy as he ever got, was a sight for sore eyes.

“Forget it,” Dean says as gently as he can manage in his current state, which isn’t very. “Well, you on the other hand, you’re looking good.” And because he feels weird just sitting, looking up at Cas, he gets to his feet. And he doesn’t even think about the fact that he walks right up to Cas, no hesitation. “So, are you back?”

“At least temporarily,” Cas replies. “It’s a long story. Crowley, stolen grace, there’s a… female outside in the car. Another time.”

Dean doesn’t even hear at first that it’s a woman waiting outside for Castiel to return, doesn’t even really register the way Cas gets uncomfortable referring to her. Important things to register, to be certain. Still, all Dean hears at first is that Cas is getting in a car and leaving.

Because _of course_ he is. Cas has better things to do with his time.

It’s probably an angel up there, he assumes. No matter how the other angels turn their backs on him, Cas just can’t help himself. If he’s found himself some lady angel to spend eternity with, all the better for him.

Cas only came here to deal with a demon, after all.

Naturally, Dean’s still grateful to him for rescuing Sam.

“Well thank you, for um, stepping in when you did.”

He lives it again, the moment that won’t ever wipe clean. This time he feels Cas’s arms wrap around him, containing him, burning with that controlled fury of angelic grace. He remembers the demon part of him screaming out, thrashing in pain. He remembers the rage. The Mark being denied was agony enough, but every bit of his demonic essence was rubbed raw and ragged as it was ensnared by angelic grace.

There had been no thought, no more rational consciousness. He’d been fury and pain and fear. The snarling madness of a caged beast.

How can he even look Cas in the eye?

He averts his gaze, changes the subject.

“What does Sam say? Does he want a divorce?” Flippant remarks are his home turf, after all.

“I’m sure Sam knows that whatever you said, what you did, wasn’t really you.” Cas said, “certainly wasn’t _all_ you.”

“I tried to kill him, Cas,” _and you don’t_ know.

“Dean. You two have been through so much. Look, you’re brothers. It’ll take a lot more than just trying to kill Sam with a hammer to make him want to walk away.”

“You realize how screwed up our lives are that that even makes sense?” Cause it kinda does. It doesn’t change anything for Dean, but Cas is probably right that Sam hasn’t run away. He’s too dumb for that.

Cas grins, damn good to see on his face, and the words just slip out:

“I’m glad you’re here man.”

Cas might not see himself as family, as far as Dean can tell, but Sam was never more right than when he called Cas Dean’s best friend. Dean’s angelic best friend, still talking to him even when Dean had gone full demon. There when he really needs him, when the chips are down. Dean will probably always think of him as family, but if Cas can be an angel again, and after all Dean’s done… Friends is more than he deserves.

Naturally, this is when Cas turns to leave.

It’s good though, it is. The Mark is quiet, but it’s still there, and now that Dean knows the power it holds over him. Well, it’s better for everyone if they run the hell away.

This is a temporary reprieve at best.

“Hey, maybe you should, um, take some time before you get back to work, allow yourself to heal. It’s uh – I dunno, timing might be right. Heaven and Hell, they seem reasonably back in order. It’s quiet out there.”

Take a break. As if that was going to make anything better. Not like it ever stayed quiet. The other shoe always dropped eventually.

Well, he was damned if he was going to be the other shoe.

One way or another, he’d make sure that Demon Dean never came back.

 

\---

 

The dreams aren’t getting any better.  Dean wakes from nightmares drenched in blood to the Mark throbbing on his arm.

He goes straight to 3 stooges, laughing too much, pretending to be ok. The stooges are funny, of course, but they're not that funny. At least not when he’s seen it all before, oh so many times.

-

Dean lays it on pretty thick about how Claire Novak doesn’t qualify as an emergency. It’s true, she doesn’t, but then Cas straight up asks for their help and of course Dean’s gonna say yes. Cas refusing to ask for their help is what led to the Leviathans, among other mistakes. So while maybe Dean’s a little irritated with Cas, he also wants to encourage Cas coming to them for help.

He steadfastly ignores the part of him that’s just happy to see Cas. Dean knows what it means that his nightmares are getting worse, and he’s already started making plans.

Lunch is almost fun. Cas asks if ketchup is a vegetable and it almost feels like old times.

Unfortunately, just like old times, Cas has always been a little too good at knowing when Dean is lying about something important. Cas promised a while back that he wouldn’t abuse his angel powers to read Dean’s mind anymore, but at this point the guy knows Dean almost as well as Sam. In a couple ways, maybe better.

Dean tries not to think about that too much, but Cas is giving him that _look_. It’s part sad puppy, part concern, and part pity. Dean is not going to be pitied, dammit… But Cas is right. Dean is so far from ok right now that his witty comeback is just a bit too honest.

“Ya, well I lost the black eyes, so that’s a plus.” Dean manages, trying to sound lighter of heart than he is. “But I still have this.” He pats the mark, ignoring the flash of memory from last night’s dream.

“Is the Mark of Cain still affecting you?” Cas asks in one of his softer tones, and this time Dean can't hold back the memories. He’s back in that room, drenched in blood, surrounded by corpses-

“Dean?” Cas jars him out of the blood and death.

Dean pulls himself back together, finds himself checking the door to make sure Sam’s not about to walk in. Sam can’t know what Dean’s about to say. He’d flip out just knowing the idea was on Dean’s mind, let alone that he was about to put this on Cas’ shoulders. It’s probably not fair, to any of them, but Cas has proved that in his best friend capacity he’s absolutely willing to do what needs to be done. Mostly.

“Cas, I need you to promise me something.” Dean can’t look Cas in the eye, but he can feel those bright blue eyes studying him in concern.

“Yes, of course.” And a bit of pride, because Cas does like to be useful.

“If I do go dark side, you gotta take me out.” Dean looks Cas in the eye now because he has to. Cas has to know how important this is, how serious.

“What do you mean?” Cas asks, and Dean ignores what he thinks might be a hint of fear in the angel’s eyes.

“Knife me, smite me, throw me into the freakin sun, whatever.” Dean finds the words easier than expected, given how bad he can be with words sometimes, but this is important. “And don’t let Sam get in the way, because he’ll try. I can’t go down that road again, man.”

Cas looks so uncertain, so hesitant. Dean knows what he’s asking will be hard. Hell, Cas found the idea of killing Dean so abhorrent that it had set Cas free from Naomi’s grasp. One of many things they’ve never talked about, not really, and that’s probably for the best.

“I can’t be that thing again.”

Dean needs Cas to understand. What he did as a demon, it was horrible enough even though he was stopped before it got really bad. Dean knows somehow, through the Mark, the nightmares, something deep down inside him that has always enjoyed the hunt and the kill, that if there is a next time it will be so much worse.

“Promise me, Cas.”

And Cas is looking at him with such an unfamiliar expression. Cas has always been fearless in the face of death, but he looks like the prospect of killing Dean is the most terrifying thing he’s ever imagined. Or maybe he’s just realizing how bad things have gotten already. Dean almost hopes he’s afraid of Demon Dean, because then maybe Cas will take him seriously.

“I’d rather be dead, Cas,” Dean insists. “I can’t do this again.”

Castiel take a large, unnecessary breath. Clearly he’s spent too much time as a human. Even with his powers back, Cas’s time stuck with humanity seems to have left a mark. It’s probably really fucking unfair of Dean to ask this of Cas now, what with the Claire Crisis and all, but who knows when they’ll have a moment alone again.

“Dean, we’ll find another way.” When did Castiel start sounding so much like his brother? Winchester idiocy is clearly contagious.

“No, we won’t. Not in time.” Because Dean knows there isn’t time. He can feel the real him starting to slip away. The Mark gets more demanding after every hunt, and Dean is already starting to feel it as a call, an invitation, and he knows that’s the Mark messing with his head, but sometimes when he looks in the mirror he can’t remember why he’s fighting this so much.

Cas just shakes his head, ever so slightly, and Dean doesn’t press it. When the chips are down, Cas will do what’s right.

He has to.

\--

Dean’s first thought, once the haze clears and his head stops rattling, is self-recrimination. He’d let some street thug catch him by surprise - sloppy. His vision clears, and he realizes the culprit must have been the rapist fucker that attacked Claire.

The Mark _growls_ , there’s no other word Dean knows to describe it. It’s almost like when Cain first gave him the Mark. Dean remembers the maelstrom of death and destruction the mark holds, that unfathomable power, its siren song. He remembers how good running Abaddon through with First Blade had made him feel. He remembers the power, the freedom from guilt and responsibility that came with being a demon.

The Mark shows him these things, everything that had made him feel alive, powerful, happy. The Mark works to stuff away his guilt, his humanity. It would give Dean the power to destroy all in his path, would keep him alive, vital, strong. Dean could walk the Earth as the thing even the monsters are afraid of, death and destruction left in his wake to all who deserve it.

But Dean is the King of Guilt, and shame is a powerful emotion. Dean tries to blink the bloodlust from his eyes, fights the Mark with everything he can. He knows he’s on the brink, can’t let this happen. He doesn’t trust himself to escape this situation without bloodshed, so does the only thing he can: he tries to warn them.

“You guys… Don’t want to do this.” He can hear the arrogance in his own words, can feel himself slipping. He can’t let himself slip/He can’t let this human scum walk unscathed.

The boot catches him in the side of the head, and he forgets why he was ever holding on.

They’re laughing, distracted, they think he’s some kind of joke.

Distracted, sloppy.

Dean balances his grip on his blade. It’s not the right blade, not the one the Mark desires, but it is still a fantastic weapon. Dean bounces to his feet, using the movement to also propel the blade, slicing upwards through flesh and muscle, opening veins. They’re so slow, shocked, they have barely noticed the first is wounded before Dean’s sent blood flying from two more of them. He disarms those with guns with ease, one gets a few shots off but Dean’s already got a hand on that thug’s gun arm. He doesn’t bother with their weapons after that, all he needs is the blade that’s already slicing open throats, spilling guts. It’s over far too quickly.

Dean’s not entirely sure how he ends up on his knees, but even as the thrill of the kill begins to recede, before the Mark eases its grip, fed and happy, Dean remembers his dream. He knows, as he comes down from the high, still floating and yet aware of the ground, that the Mark is making a point. Here Dean is, on his knees, covered in blood, surrounded by corpses. This was inevitable, this is his future, there is no escape.

Claire’s scream pierces the fog. Dean’s still in a daze, but he watches her spin into Castiel’s arms, and even Cas looks a little horrified. Maybe now he’ll understand, Dean thinks; absurdly, it makes him almost want to laugh. Then Sam, big little Sam with his stupid hair and those puppy-dog eyes is in Dean’s face, getting handsy in that way that tells Dean more about how panicked Sam is than the words coming out of his mouth ever could. Hands tight to Dean’s face and neck, and it feels a little like he’s just been stabbed by Metatron, bleeding out on the concrete. Dean should have died then, it would have been better for everyone.

“Tell me you had to do this.” Sam says it like he’s trying to command the universe to make it true, or begging it. They’re not so different sometimes.

“I didn’t, I didn’t mean to.” He didn’t. A part of that killing machine was all Dean, but he’s so weak, he couldn’t fight it.

“Tell me: it was _them_ or _you_.” Sam’s practically yelling now.

Dean knows - _knows_ \- that if he was in control he could have taken them all down without permanent injury to any of them. He can’t get the words out, never been good with words, words suck. They never should have saved him. They should have killed him or left him to rot, and now it’s happening all over again.

Sam must see it in his eyes, because he looks like he’s about to have his own brown bag moment.

Maybe now, at least, they'll understand.

Maybe now they’ll be able to let him go.

 

\---

 

Of course, they hadn’t.

Not yet, anyway.

 

\---

 

Two Charlies: one good, one bad? About as ridiculous as their lives normally are, but all this talk of evil selfs and unleashing your inner darkness is hitting a little too close to home.

Still, it’s good to see her. Good Charlie, that is. Dark Charlie was just disconcerting. She had Charlie’s face, her voice, but with violence, danger, and crazy ninja skills.

“I keep calling her ‘she’, but she is me,” Charlie says. She looks positively distraught as she gets the next words out. “I’m the one doing this.”

“Charlie,” Dean’s response is automatic. “It’s not who you are, ok? It’s a twisted version of-“

“- Me.” Charlie’s giving Dean something close to that truly formidable expression she gets when she knows beyond a doubt that she’s right. Dean can’t exactly dispute the truth, not out loud. It’s certainly hard not to think of a similar conversation he had with Cas not long ago. Dean hadn’t agreed with him either.

“I’ve been following her so I can catch her before she does something stupid and- and just lock her away, forever,” says Charlie.

“Charlie,” says Sam in that soothing-a-frightened-animal voice he does so well. “That’s not an answer.”

“Sam’s right,” Dean adds. His brain is whirring with solutions, because there is a way to fix this. Of course there is. “We’ll go back to Oz and we’ll- we’ll get the key from the Wizard of Douche, and we’ll put you back together.” Ya, that’s a plan.

“Even if I did want her back,” Charlie reaches into her bag and pulls out the key. “Look, Dark Me broke the key. There’s no way to get back to The Wizard.”

Dean’s heart momentarily stops. He can't help reaching out to take the key from Charlie, confirm by touch, with hands that threaten to shake, that what she says is true. The key feels like he remembers, except for where it’s missing the whole _key_ bit.

No. Dean’s prepared to accept that _he’s_ beyond saving, but his brain can’t process the idea that _Charlie_ is doomed to this crazy evil twin mess.

Fortunately, Sam is already planning for what they currently _can_ do, follow the money, and Dean isn’t giving up yet. Still, he can feel an itching tremor in his right hand. He needs space, needs to recollect.

“I’ll get some refills,” he declares, picking up the empty glasses with his steadier left. Sam and Charlie haven’t noticed, he’s covering well then, and he makes his way to the bar while they work out the hacking details. Dean’s not a Luddite, especially not since getting lessons from both Frank and Charlie, but Charlie’s the expert, and Sam's always been better at that stuff anyway.

Dean tries to summon his calm, or whatever that stupid meditation crap was droning on about, but his eyes instantly fall on the liquor behind the bar and god does he want a drink. He’s trying, the whole healthy body, healthy mind stuff is all he’s got at this point. Doesn’t make him want the oblivion of a bottle any less. Trying to quell one addiction while also denying himself another, if it weren’t for the whole ‘trying to not end up a demon again’ thing he’d think this might be his application for sainthood.

Of course, then the bartender pulls a bottle off the shelf and Dean’s face to face with his own reflection once more. He hates looking at himself in the mirror these days. He does it anyway, because it’s near impossible to avoid, and also because he needs to be _sure_. The fact that it hurts every time doesn’t stop him from staring at his own eyes, expecting the next blink to reveal demon black. Dean’s never liked himself very much, but these days the face looking back at him is broken in so many new and awful ways that he despises himself all the more.

His arm twinges and, like picking at a scab, Dean can’t help staring down at his shaking hand. He - it -  they want to spill blood so badly he can’t physically contain it. Sure, he’s managed not to go full psycho for well over a week now, but that’s not exactly saying much, is it?

_Pull yourself together Winchester!  You’re on a case, and Charlie needs you._

Dean orders coffee for himself, because it’s the opposite of liquor and he needs something to drink that isn’t disgustingly healthy.

_Come on, Charlie needs you.  Fall apart later._

_Back to work._

-

Dark Charlie is infuriating, but as Dean pulls up to his destination - in a minivan like a bloody soccer mom - he tries to quell the anger. With any luck both Charlies will be one again soon and that will be that. Not that the Winchesters are ever what you could call lucky.

First, she’d taken Dean down with some crazy ninja leg moves, and seriously how does a girl that tiny manage to knock Dean on his ass without some sort of supernatural strength? Under other circumstances he’d be rather proud of her.

Worse, though, she’d lied to him. Dean Winchester, guy who lies for a living, had somehow failed to realize Dark Charlie had no intention of letting the bastard who killed her parents live. Really, he should have seen it coming. Maybe it was the idea that anyone with Charlie’s face could lie that well to him, maybe he’d just hoped that even in her darkness she was better than Dean, or maybe – and the Mark twinges at the though – maybe he’d wanted her to have her revenge.

_“He got what he deserved. You know I’m right.”_

Dean’s out of the minivan when he hears the distinct sound of a gunshot ring through the air. He moves towards the sound on autopilot, but doesn’t get more than a couple steps before he then hears the most soothing sound in the world, the rumble of his Baby’s engine.

And ya, he’s seriously pissed for Baby too. First Charlie slashes her tires, and then Charlie jacks her? Not cool.

“Figured you’d lie about where to go next. That’s what I would do.” Charlie doesn’t seem to have damaged the Impala, at least.

“What the hell do you want?”

“I just want to talk to her.”

Charlie’s words from earlier swim in Dean’s head. _“Being Dark, it sets you free. And part of you knows that’s right too.”_ He could feel part of him agreeing with her, it would be all to easy to slide down that slippery slope, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let this twisted version of Charlie corrupt the good, sweet, kind Charlie that he knows and loves; strong in an entirely different way.

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere near her. I’m not going to let you _corrupt_ her.”

“ _Corrupt_ her?”

“You take one more step I’m gonna put you down.” Dean’s focus has narrowed, preparing for violence. He needs to buy time for Sam and Charlie, but also he’s so done listening to this.

“There’s the Dean I love,” Charlie practically purrs, or maybe growls (somewhere on that spectrum) and Dean’s fingers twitch, aching for a fight. If he stopped and thought about it he might be able to pinpoint exactly why he finds her so infuriating, but mostly he just tells himself he has to stop Dark Charlie from getting to Good Charlie, and boy it would be nice to get some revenge for earlier. He’s wise to her ninja tricks now.

Charlie takes that step closer, smirk still plastered smugly on her face, and Dean throws his warning shot to her jaw. The rush of drawing even that small amount of blood sends a surge of satisfied endorphins through his veins.

“You hit like a girl who never learned how to hit,” Charlie taunts. She throws her counter punch, knee to the gut, hurls Dean over a railing and Dean’s mind and body slip into combat mode. Years of instincts, fuelled by the the thing that aches for blood, start to take over.

He almost lets the next two blows land, the violence is soothing, familiar, home. He lets go his restraints, throws two more blows in retaliation, sends Charlie flying. Dark Charlie, manifestation of evil and violence and cruelty, and Dean can almost see her eyes flashing to black.

“That’s it big boy, let it all out!”

So he does. Like the words absolve him of responsibility, giving him all the permission in the world.

They continue to trade blows back and forth. The fight might appear even on the surface, but Dean has a strength darker than any unleashed id fuelling his fists, getting stronger with every blow given and every bit of his own blood spilled.

“You hurt my friend,” Dean accuses, because this isn’t Charlie, this is the woman who hurt Charlie. This is the woman who tortured and murdered with Charlie’s face, in her name.

“I learned it by watching you,” and fuck, that’s just _it_. Dean manages to get Dark Charlie’s arm in a lock, and for a moment he pauses, hesitates. _This is all my fault, but it’s also_ hers. His right arm moves without conscious thought, snapping bone and wringing the first real glorious sound of pain from the evil bitch he’s fighting. He doesn’t regret it, gives in to the violence, and he feels better than he has in days.

Free.

He doesn’t really remember kicking her to the ground, crouching over her.

She represents everything he hates, everything he’s trying so hard not to be, and it feels so damn good to throw blow after blow at her face. Mark her up, so she doesn’t look like the sweet girl he once knew, bring the ugliness to the surface. Her face is streaked in blood and he’s just starting to feel a prodding for more, for finality, when Sam’s voice cuts through Dean’s heart.

“Dean, Dean!” For a moment Dean whirls on Sam, furious that he would try and stop him. Sam stands there, cradling Charlie in his arms. Good Charlie, his Charlie, and sanity comes rushing back. She’s wounded, bleeding and it’s Dean’s fault.

Dean scrambles back and all he can do is stare in horror at the twins – two parts of one whole. Good Charlie is a mess, worse than what even the Leviathan ever did to her, and the blood is on Dean’s hands. Literally. He looks down at his knuckles, coated in her blood, and oh god.

_What have I done?_

She’s in pain, put back together and sobbing, and it’s all Dean’s fault. Those tears are on him.

-

Charlie. Charlie should hate him, and instead she’s standing there forgiving him. He doesn’t deserve her.

“I’m so sorry kiddo.” He hugs her, not quite believing she’s even letting him.

“Then prove it.”

Prove to Charlie that he’s sorry? He can do that, because he is sorry beyond words. He’s never going to let himself hurt someone he loves ever again. This had been too close, way too close.

He feels the slightest twinge of the Mark, but somehow it feels more distant than usual. Has since he stood over two bleeding and broken versions of Charlie with horror and self hate. Knowing he could do that to someone he loves, without black eyes egging him on…

He won’t. Not again.

Charlie wants him to prove it. Charlie believes in him still, after everything that happened. After everything he did, all the pain he caused.

Dean will fight this, he won’t let the Mark win.

For Charlie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, criticism and kudos are love!
> 
> Next part might be slightly delayed, family issues. It's mostly written though, so I'll try.


	3. For Charlie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d been doing so well. His mantra “for Charlie” had kept the Mark stable in a way it had never been before. He’d known it would come to an end eventually, but he’d thought he’d have a little more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Jen for finding my typos and reassuring me that Dean is, in fact, in character.

He’d been doing so well. His mantra “for Charlie” had kept the Mark stable in a way it had never been before. He’d known it would come to an end eventually, but he’d thought he’d have a little more time.

And now?

Cain’s words play through Dean’s mind on a loop.

“First … first, you’d kill Crowley. There’d be some strange mixed feelings on that one but you’d have your reason. You’d get it done, no remorse.

And then you’d kill the angel, Castiel. Now _that one_ , that I suspect would hurt something awful.

And then! Then would come the murder you’d never survive, the one that would turn you into as much of a savage as it did me. Your brother, Sam.”

Dean pokes and prods at the memory, knowing he shouldn’t even as he continues to obsess. It’s not like his other possible lines of thought were any more pleasant. There are plenty of options, none of them good. Mostly when his mind drifts it’s the First Blade that comes to mind, and he _can’t_. Knowing Cas has the secret of it’s location now, instead of Crowley, is a curse and a blessing. Cain was right about one thing, Dean could kill Crowley without remorse. He’d tricked Crowley into handing it over once, knows he could do it again, and sliding the Blade through that smug bastard’s ribs would be incredibly satisfy-

_No._

If killing Crowley really was a stepping stone towards becoming Cain, well then the bastard could just live a long, annoying life.

The fingers of his right hand twitch, grasping for a handle that isn’t there, and Dean slaps his left down over the Mark.

All the progress he’d made... He’d known he’d lose the fight eventually, but some small part of him had held a weird sort of solace in the knowledge that, even as a demon, Dean has mostly been able to maintain his distance from Sam and Cas. The visions of Sam’s death that continue to haunt him… Dean had held hope, deep down, that his demon self had only become set on killing Sam because Sam had become a threat.

Now…

Now that hope is all but gone.

The more he thinks about it, the more his thoughts swirl back to Cain’s stepping stone. The thing that’s supposed to take Dean from killing a demon to killing his brother.

Castiel.

Killing Cas… Dean’s mind finds that much harder to process. Sam’s death would seem just as unlikely, if Dean couldn’t still picture his brother’s flesh between his teeth, didn't have nightmares nearly every night. Of course he refuses to accept that he ever would willingly kill his little brother, but he knows there’s a point where he won’t be in control anymore.

At least there are no bloody fantasies of Cas rattling around in his brain. Except… Except he’d asked Cas to stop him. So if Dean is that far gone and Cas tries and fails… If his dwindling grace isn’t enough. That instinct for self-preservation, _the_ most primal instinct, could absolutely lead to… to..

No, he can’t let himself get to anywhere near that point. He needs to be stopped. Dean’s read all the lore, though, and aside from maybe an archangel – all of which are dead or trapped – Dean’s pretty sure there’s only one force in the universe strong enough to make sure he can’t hurt anyone anymore. Well, two, but God’s not listening, and after all, he had said that one day he’d reap even God himself. One cursed nearly-demon shouldn’t be a problem.

 

\--

 

Dean’s run in with the Stynes at the gas station had only made things clear. The Book of the Damned was too dangerous. The cost of using it wasn’t worth considering, and they certainly couldn’t let it fall into the hands of some evil occult family that could take bullets to the chest and keep on moving. It had to go.

Holy oil seems like a good idea, and Dean throws it on the fire without a second thought. Then he picks up the box and, despite the warding, he feels a twinge of reluctance, hesitation. He can’t do this himself, and the Stynes were closing in.

“There is a cure for the Mark in the book, but it comes at a price,” Dean explains. “You gotta destroy it.”

It was the wrong thing to say, Dean can tell from the look on Sam’s face. Sam didn’t show fear often, and the way it was tinged with desperation made Dean’s stomach clench. The Mark, on the other hand, enjoys it. Dean can feel power tingling through his veins from the brand on his skin, reaching out towards the Book of the Damned, and despite the lead and all the warding Dean can still feel the book reaching back. It calls to Dean in a way that he is too damned familiar with.

“Are you sure about this?” Sam asks.

“It’s calling to me, Sam,” Dean admits. “Ok? I can hear it. It’s calling to the Mark. It wants me to take the Book and run away with it.”

The creak of boots on the cabin’s wooden steps gets Dean’s instant attention. Every instinct he has tells him to leave the book in Sam’s hands and get ready for a fight, but for a heartbeat Dean pauses. When he turns towards the sound Charlie comes into focus, and then he’s seeing double. Superimposed over the concerned Charlie of now is the bruised and broken Charlie that Dean had hurt. The Charlie who still, somehow, trusted him. The Charlie who he had sworn would never come to harm again if Dean had anything to do with it. The Mark burns angrily and, without understanding why, Dean suddenly knows, with an odd sense of warmth and calm, that it is Charlie he has to give the book to. Besides, Sam is the better choice to fight off the Stynes.

Dean turns, reaches out for Charlie’s arm and pushes the box into her hands.

“Burn it, now.”

Charlie’s eyes go wide, but she nods and scrambles over to the fire. Dean moves towards the approaching enemies, glances out the door, and then shoots a look back at Sam, who still hasn’t moved.

“Sam, move!”

That seems to snap his brother out of it, and in the next moment glass shatters and the fight begins. Here, Dean is at home, and the thrill of combat takes over.

It’s over in moments. Dean drops one, Sam another, and Charlie picks up her sword to stab the leader in the heart in a move that Dean thinks is pretty bad ass, given her newbie hunter status.

The Mark calls to Dean to keep moving, keep killing. One death is not near enough, but Dean breathes through it, trying to find his calm. The only people left standing are Sam and Charlie, his brother and the woman who feels more and more like a sister with each passing day. Hurting them is unthinkable, and for the moment the Mark relents.

“Um, guys?” Charlie’s voice is oddly tense, given the danger has passed. Dean opens his mouth to respond, but the sudden pull he feels towards the fire tells him all he needs to know.

Still, Dean lets his eyes fall to the fire, where the Book of the Damned lies untouched by the fire licking at its edges.

_Well, shit._

Sam moves, prodding the book out of the fire and back into the box with an iron poker. The lid slamming shut gives Dean a moment of relief mixed with loss, before the reality begin to sink in.

“Guess we’ll have to find some other way to destroy it,” Dean says. He doesn’t know Charlie well enough just yet to work out the expression on her pale face, but Sam’s is all too easy. Sam is clearly relieved and – _fuck_ – that’s going to be a problem.

Well, they can have that fight later. For now it’s more important to get rid of the bodies and hit the road before either the authorities or more Stynes show up looking for answers.

Charlie isn’t thrilled with the task of dragging the corpses outside and burning the remains, and she certainly can’t do much in the way of heavy lifting with her bullet wound, but she still helps how she can without complaint. After helping with the heavy lifting, Sam sets about gathering up all the files and lore books.

Dean’s carrying wood to the pyre when he feels a twinge from the Mark. His eyes snap up and fix on the box in Sam’s hands. Whispers call out to Dean. The words are indistinct and muffled, but Dean can hear them all the same. He stands still, frozen mid-step, brain temporarily locked out of gear.

Sam stows the box in the trunk of the Impala. The bang of the trunk slamming shut knocks Dean back into gear, muffles the whispers even further. He turns back to his task. There’s no real reason to believe they need to burn the Styne’s corpses, but they’ve decided better safe than sorry. The sooner they blow this joint and get back to the bunker, the sooner Dean can work out what to do next. Sam’s not likely to listen to reason, so the next step is going to require a lot of thought.

 

\---

 

They drop Sam off at the bunker. The general consensus is that on top of the warding on the box, the bunker’s protections make it the safest place to stash the Book of the Damned. Dean said for now, but Sam still had that look in his eyes and had made a noncommittal noise in response. Well, Sam probably wouldn’t start poking at that evil thing until after a good night’s sleep at least. Probably.

So Charlie and Dean head out on a supply run. Pizza, beer, and some fresh bandages for Charlie’s bullet wound were in order. Dean had suggested Charlie wait at the bunker with Sam, given she should be resting, but Charlie had stubbornly refused and even Sam seemed to think better of arguing the point with her.

So they drive into Lebanon together.

Lebanon is a frankly tiny town, hardly deserving of the name, but Dean is unwilling to take a longer trip tonight.

Charlie spends most of the ride there talking about her adventures in Europe. The highlights, anyway. She sticks to the fun stuff and Dean even manages a chuckle when Charlie goes on about this Italian goddess who tried to sweep the hunter off her feet. Not a literal goddess, a distinction that is critical in their line of work, but according to Charlie a brunette with a body to die for, entrancing accent, and a penchant for pale lesbians.

“How could you possibly resist that?” Dean demands. “You must be making this shit up, no way you turned down a woman that hot.”

“What can I say,” Charlie replies with a smile.  “I was closing in on the book and had to keep my priorities straight. My will save is strong.”

Dean’s pretty sure that “will save” is a role-playing term, but there are an awful lot of rules and it’s been a while since he LARPed with Charlie.

“So is yours, I hear.” Charlie continues, her voice going a bit softer. Dean suppresses a groan, of course Charlie wants to _talk_. Course, it’s been easier for Dean to talk to Charlie than, historically, with most people. So there’s that. “Sam said after I left you were doing really well.”

Dean sighs, pulling the Impala into the grocery store parking lot.

“Can we not?”

“I’m just saying, from what he told me your epic battle with Cain should have done a lot more damage than it did.” Charlie ignores his protest, of course. “I know you’re struggling, but Sam and I are going to find you a cure, we are. And until then, you need to remember how awesome you are. You got this, ok?”

“Right Samwise,” Dean rolls his eyes and gets out of the Impala. “How about we get going before the store closes, huh?”

Charlie beams at him, probably tickled by the idea that Dean’s comparing her to Samwise Gamgee, stalwart hobbit that kept Frodo from succumbing to the dark power of the One Ring.

Probably not the best reference to keep up his manly walls, but Charlie brings that crap out in him.

-

They’re walking back to the Impala, arms loaded with supplies, when Dean’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Dean deposits the bags absently as he pulls out his phone, just the preview of the text from Sam brings a grin to Dean’s lips.

Charlie, of course, doesn’t miss a beat.

“Good news?”

“Fucking fantastic news,” Dean replies.

_Sam: Cas is here. He got his grace back!_

“Looks like you finally get to meet Cas,” Dean gives Charlie a large grin, made all the better by the look of giddy excitement on Charlie’s face. They pile into the car, and Dean won’t admit it, but he’s suddenly feeling the urge to break all the speed limits getting back to the bunker. He won’t, because it’s not necessary and more than a little incriminating, and while this is best thing to happen to them in a long time, Dean doesn’t entirely trust it. Not yet. He certainly wouldn’t put it past his luck that they’d get pulled over.

“I’m so excited! You think he’ll like me? Wow, a real live angel, and it’s Castiel!”

Well, there’s another plus side. Charlie doesn’t seem to want to discuss anything other than Cas anymore, and her excited ramblings take up the entire drive home.

Maybe Dean was right. Maybe they really were due for a win.

 

\--

 

Dinner is a god damned joy.

Dean hasn’t felt this good since in a long time.

It’s not that the Mark is any more quiet than is usual in the bunker. It’s just that a special kind of awesome is getting all of Dean’s attention at the moment.

First, there’s Cas. He’s whole again. It’s not that Dean thought less of Cas when he was human, but Dean’s started to think that Castiel’s Grace is the closest thing Cas has to a soul. He’s still him without it, but there’s clearly a piece missing. And the stolen graces, well Cas had called the act barbaric. The disgust the he’d conveyed… If it was possible to give a soulless human another’s soul, wouldn’t that be horrible? Maybe humans are just more noisy about being without their souls.

Cas now seems so alive, and more _Castiel_.

Dean is so god damned happy. It doesn’t even matter that Cas will probably leave in the morning.

Plus, now Cas has mojo to spare for healings. Which means Charlie’s bullet wound is gone – and apparently her carpal tunnel – which makes his entire family happy and healthy over dinner.

Ok, Sam is being a little awkward, but at least he’s playing along.

Dean’s under no delusions that his time is limited. The real shit of it is that this evening is confirming the philosophy that might have had him successfully fighting off the Mark for years. He’ll never admit out loud that just being happy and loving life was what smothered the Mark. Just like he’s pretty sure he’s not going to admit that sometimes he maybe, perhaps, sometimes feels the mark as less of a force of nature, and more like the siren song of a lover. A lover that could never be too upset that Dean was happy. Still, all that had ended when he’d laid hands on the First Blade again. Maybe, maybe he stood a chance still then, maybe. Plunging the First Blade into Cain made it all irrelevant.

The moment Cain’s heart stopped beating Dean’s had nearly pounded out of his chest. Power rushed through him, intoxicating, empowering, dark. The First Blade drank deep. This was the blood of its creator, companion of a millennia. The First Blade, weapon of the first murder, wielded by the father of murder, whom was now, himself, murdered. The Blade drank Cain’s blood, as literally as an evil jawbone can. Dean could feel the Blade absorbing Cain’s power, drinking it in, claiming his power as its own.

And from within the Mark, something dark and primal and terrifying wound it’s way around Dean’s spine and said, “ _Mine.”_

Giving up the Blade after that was easy. The claim on his soul no longer needs the old weapon as a catalyst, the Blade is still a source of power, a weapon that can kill nearly anything, but no longer necessary to the Mark. That Dark power has wound itself around muscle and bone, nerve and organ, and it won’t be long before all that is left is the Darkness.

But just for tonight, the three people Dean loves are happy and healthy and _here._ Tonight Dean can forget how his insides are darkening. Dean doesn’t expect to wind up in Heaven again, and if he goes through with his plan it absolutely goes out the window, but he imagines that this is a moment that would grace his heaven. He’ll ride out this high for as long as he can.

 

\--

 

Charlie is half sprawled over Dean, a bowl with the un-popped and burned bits of popcorn balanced precariously in his lap. She’s making occasional snuffling sounds in her sleep, and it’s actually quite adorable.

They might have gotten a little drunk.

Sam went to bed hours ago, but naturally Castiel is wide awake and still glued to the TV.

At some point, around when Sam went to bed in disgust, Charlie and Dean had decided it would be hilarious to put on a Netflix Anime called Seven Deadly Sins. Castiel kept insisting that the real deadly sins were nothing like that, to which Dean kept having to remind him that “of course I know that, I helped kill the real Sins.” Charlie, though half asleep, still managed to mumble proudly “The Magnificent Seven, not Chuck’s best work.”

It doesn’t take long for Charlie to pass out, it’s been a long day after all. She’s half mostly curled comfortably in one corner in the couch, but somehow her legs have ended draped across Dean’s lap. Cas on the other hand is back to not sleeping, and seems focused on the show. Seems, being the key word, cause if Cas thinks he’s being sneaky when he steals glances in Dean’s direction, well Dean’s not being fooled.

“Waiting for me to pass out so you can leave?” The words spill from Dean’s mouth without his permission. It’s not like he’s drunk, but his tongue doesn’t seem to know that.

“What?” Cas is equally eloquent. Ya, this isn’t going to end well. “I have no intention of going anywhere this evening.”

“Come on, Hannah got you your mojo back, she must be expecting your help in return.” It’s the generous guess. Dean’s worse thoughts stay buried in his head,

Castiel looks guilty, an expression Dean is now far too familiar with.

“No, nothing is expected of me,” Castiel replies. “I would help if it were required, but I doubt Hannah would have anything more important for me to attend to right now than helping you.”

Dean freezes for a second, uncomfortable in the sudden focus of attention. He glances over to Charlie, glad to see she seems well and truly out.

“Right, because I’m such a danger,” he’s angry, though he’d be hard pressed to explain exactly why. He gently shifts Charlie’s legs off, slipping up and away from the couch. “I’m gonna go check to make sure Charlie’s room is fit for our queen.

Dean’s out of the room before Cas can reply. Well, maybe he says something, but Dean resolutely doesn’t hear it.

Charlie’s room is perfect, Sam must have been in here earlier.

Charlie herself stumbles in a minute later. Dean must have woken her up, but all she does is mutter “’nite bitches,” and shut the door in Dean’s face. So that’s ok.

Fortunately, Cas doesn’t seem to have followed. Which is fine with Dean. He shuffles quickly but quietly to his own room, hoping to lock himself in, get a good night’s sleep, and deal with life again in the morning.

Cas, clearly, has other ideas.

“Dude, privacy?” Dean says. Cas is standing in Dean’s room, leaning up against the wall. He raises an eyebrow and with a tiny hand gesture the door closes and locks.

“There, privacy.” And there’s steel in his voice that says there’s no way Dean is going to get away without having some stupid conversation. Figures.

Dean plops on his bed, propped up by the headboard, but with one booted foot still on the floor. He tries to look completely unimpressed. It’s not that hard, honestly. He gives Cas his best glare, but Cas is projecting his “pissed off angel of the lord” persona, and it’s so damn hard to tell what the angel is actually thinking when he’s in that mode. Well, except that he’s clearly pissed.

“I’m not staying to help because I think you’re a danger, Dean.” Cas finally growls out.

Dean rolls his eyes, “Look you can lie to the others if you want, but I _know_ how dangerous I am.”

“Perhaps,” Cas concedes. Dean certainly wouldn’t respect him if he insisted on being wilfully ignorant. “That doesn’t mean it’s the only reason someone might want to help you. Sam, Charlie and I care about you Dean. Or is it that you still don’t think you deserve to be saved?” As Cas speaks he walks closer, until he’s practically looming over Dean, who suddenly wishes he’d stayed standing because now Cas is making some primal part of Dean want to cower – or worship. He half expects to see Cas’s wings flared out behind him, memories of their first meeting in a warded barn.

It’s also kinda hot.

Dean’s brain, pulled in too many directions at once, stalls out. Guilt, shame, fear, anger and others he couldn’t even begin to name. One person shouldn’t be able to feel this many things and not have their head explode. As a result, Dean finds himself staring up at Cas, mouth slightly agape, and no sound coming out.

Anger is the easiest for Dean to process, but it’s completely overwhelmed by all the rest. Given a bit more time he could have channeled it into a workable solution, words even, but Cas doesn’t give him the time.

Cas’s entire posture softens, and suddenly he’s sitting on the side of the bed, hand finding it’s familiar home on Dean’s shoulder. Dean finds himself drawn in by bright blue eyes, and now his body can’t decide whether to flee or move closer. Closer is so, so tempting, but he doesn’t deserve that any more now than before, less in fact.

“You deserve to be saved, Dean,” says Cas, his gravelly voice far too compassionate. “I only wish you would believe it.”

And then suddenly Cas is standing, leaving, and it’s not like Dean has anything to say in response to that. Nothing that makes it out of his frozen brain before Cas is out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, Criticism and Kudos fuel my creativity.


	4. Relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem with having loved ones is that they do stupid, stupid things in the name of love. Dean knows this all too well, of course. He did basically start the apocalypse because he couldn’t let Sam stay dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Now it all starts to kick off.

The problem with having loved ones is that they do stupid, stupid things in the name of love. Dean knows this all too well, of course. He did basically start the apocalypse because he couldn’t let Sam stay dead.

Still, that was just his own soul Dean had traded away and he’d do it again. The fact that he broke in hell was nobody’s fault but his own. The Book of the Damned, on the other hand, has some obvious world-reaching consequences. The fact that they don’t know what the result would be doesn’t mitigate the fact that the thing is evil, with evil consequences.

Fortunately, right now no one can read it.

Dean’s protests have largely fallen on deaf ears and after 36 hours of frustration he took off to deal with a vamp’s nest all on his own. Being in one place too long, even in the bunker, drives Dean nuts on a good day and decapitating a bunch of vamps soothes the Mark some, takes the edge off. Not enough, but some.

Sam is pissed that Dean took on 6 vamps alone, but Cas seems to display a grudging understanding of the situation. Charlie would probably be pissed too, but she’s thrown herself deep into her research and just gives Dean “the look” when he returns.

Attempting to decipher the code the Book is in is proving fruitless (Charlie swears she can do it, but is missing something crucial) so instead the research squad are going through all the Men of Letter’s files, again, to see if there’s anything about code-breaking evil texts.

“Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way,” Cas muses over a stack of files.

“What other way is there?” asks Sam. He sounds tired and frustrated, but there’s still that determination underneath.

Dean glowers from over his sandwich. He’d been eating it with exaggerated relish after telling the others that he wouldn’t feed idiots.

Ya, it’s been a little tense. Probably why he’s been spending a lot of time at Lebanon’s only bar.

“The Book of the Damned is a spellbook,” Cas replies. “Maybe there’s an aspect to it that requires a powerful witch to understand.”

“Shame we don’t have any witch friends,” Charlie quips. “Hermione would be awesome at this.”

Dean snorts. It expresses his feelings on the matter pretty well, he thinks.

“Well…” Sam muses, “we don’t know any friendly witches, but we do know an old and powerful one.”

“No.”

“Dean-“

“No, Sam. We’re not getting in bed with that evil bitch.” Dean is furious now, “Crowley might have gone soft, but Rowena tried to kill me like – what? – two weeks ago? Even if it wasn’t a stupid, stupid idea, she’d never agree anyway. And even if she did, you sure as hell can’t trust her.”

Even as he says it, Dean can tell that they’re all planning on ignoring him. It’s a dumb move and the fact that they’re going to try anyway, he can _feel_ it, is frustrating beyond reason; so beyond reason that he loses time. One moment he’s explaining how Rowena will screw them over, the next the remains of his lunch and a significant portion of the files that had been on the table are scattered across the room and Dean’s knuckles are bleeding from where he clearly punched the wall. An impressive dent is in the tile, but the pain is grounding.

Ignoring the various voices of his idiot friends, Dean storms off to his room, locking the door. He’d leave, but the sane part of him knows that leaving just means they can sneak off on him.

\--

Another couple of days and he’s not the only one getting restless. Charlie wants to go on a run to pick up some computer parts, mumbling something about building a better Turing machine. Cas is also starting to look twitchy, occasionally rolling his shoulders and taking to reading while pacing.

Dean ends up finding a possible hunt two states over, probably a ghost. Ghosts aren’t nearly as satisfying to the Mark, no blood to shed, but a hunt is a hunt. If he leaves early in the morning he might even be able to get back in time to sleep in his own bed.

Cas insists on coming with him, but at least he makes the persuasive argument that he’s not really helping much on the research front at this point. Dean’s not dumb, he knows that Cas is absolutely competent at doing research and clearly wants to keep an eye on him; but Sam is still pissed about Dean taking on the vamps alone, and he might – maybe – have a point. Not that Dean is willing to admit it. After all 6 vamps solo is a record Dean’s proud of, but the results of Dean “dying” at this point are worse than actual death. So, backup.

The drive is largely silent, mercifully. Dean plays his tapes, Cas mostly watches the land fly by. Dean catches Cas glancing his way out of the corner of his eye a couple times, but otherwise it’s a largely comfortable silence. Well, as comfortable as Dean ever is these days.

It ends up being the easiest hunt Dean has been on in years. The ghost is exactly who they thought it might be and Cas insists on digging up the grave because he feels like he hasn’t contributed anything to the hunt. Not that Dean did much either, but digging graves has never been fun and Cas’s strength makes quick work of the job.

“You should come on more hunts, Cas,” Dean says in his more joking tone. “You make digging graves look easy.”

Cas gives him a look that is almost a glare, but not quite. “Always happy to get dirty for the Winchesters.”

Naturally Cas’s attempt at humour ends up as unintentional innuendo. Dean hopes it’s unintentional. If Cas ever masters innuendo Dean’s doomed. Naturally, Dean can’t help a strained laugh.

“Seriously though Cas, isn’t this a little… beneath you?” Cas gives him another withering glare. “You once complained about having to use a shotgun.”

“I’ve been through a lot since then,” Cas replies eventually, tossing another shovelful of dirt out of the grave with enviable strength.

They continue in silence for a while.

The ghost doesn’t even put up much of a fuss during the salt and burn. She’s clearly confused, sad and maybe hasn’t gone full vengeful yet. She’d managed to scare a few kids nearly to death and either pushed or spooked the victim into falling down the stairs. Practically harmless, as ghosts go.

Cas doesn’t bring it up again until they’re driving back in the Impala.

“Dean,” Cas says with a combination of hesitance and exasperation. “I’m still here.”

“I noticed,” Dean’s says because, ya, Cas has never spent this long with them before, even without his wings. “You really didn’t have to come on this hunt though.”

“I told you Dean, I’m here because I want to be.” Cas’ energy seems to seep away, “Besides, it’s… hard, staying in one place too long, sometimes.”

Given Castiel used to be able to flit across the planet and between dimensions in a heartbeat, ya, being grounded must be hard. Maybe when he was human it was just part of the package, but to have his grace back and still…

“Must be tough. Your wings…” But he can’t finish his thought, it’s too personal.

“They are… badly damaged.” Cas speaks so softly that Dean almost doesn’t hear him.

“Like, they might heal?” For a moment Dean is hopeful for Cas.

“No,” well damn. “They weren’t damaged in The Fall, but I have fallen all the same.”

Now that doesn’t really make sense.

“But, Lucifer still has his wings and he fell so hard that-“ Ok, Dean doesn’t know how to describe how hard Lucifer fell.

“Lucifer is an archangel, but also… I took on stolen grace, an abomination and from angels that _did_ lose their wings. It was… Expected.” Cas shakes his head a little, as if waving it all off. “I haven’t been a proper angel since- since the Apocalypse.”

Dean’s pretty sure Cas was going to say something else, and he’s not sure whether he should poke at that particular wound at all.

“Also, Lucifer for all his faults, still sees himself as an angel.”

Dean’s saved from having to make a decision on what to say next when his phone rings.

He doesn’t recognize the number. Telemarketer or a case, two opposites in the spectrum of importance. It’s probably a telemarketer, but he has to answer it anyway just in case.

“Supernatural support hotline,” he quips, knowing that anyone not in the know will think it a joke.

“Dean Winchester?”

“Who’s asking?”

“We haven’t met, but I believe you killed my brother, Jacob.” The voice at the end of the phone is calm, almost jovial. Though the mention of the brother holds a current of rage hidden underneath. The accent is very familiar.

“Now you wouldn’t be referring to Jacob Styne, would you?”

Cas looks up at this, and Dean switches the phone to speaker as he pulls over.

“- indeed. Now, you have something of ours, and I’m prepared to be generous and trade it for something of yours.”

Dean frowns, mind whirring. What could they possibly have that they think would be worth the Book of the Damned? Cas doesn’t seem to have any answers, but he’s listening intently. Dean wonders how many layers of sound the angel can hear through the limitations of a cellphone speaker. Clearly he’s trying.

His eyes widen in obvious shock and concern, moments before Dean hears the voice and understands.

“Dean, don’t-“ Charlie is cut off with a cry of pain and Dean’s entire body goes rigid.

“Now Red here hasn’t been very forthcoming, but we know why you want the book and if she doesn’t have it you do. So, a trade then.”

“I am going to kill you for this.” Dean’s voice is oddly calm for the violence raging inside him. His goal is set, his path clear.

“You can surely try, Mr. Winchester. In the meantime, you and your brother will give me what I want if you want to see this girl again.”

The Styne lists an address and time and Dean grips his phone so hard the casing cracks and the screen goes dark.

Dean throws the Impala into gear and tears down the highway towards Lebanon. His mind is filled with images, scenarios, none of them good. How the Stynes tracked, well, any of them down is a mystery – magic probably – but Dean can’t get too caught up in that. He needs to formulate a plan, because there is no way in hell he is letting Charlie down again.

“We’ll get her back,” Cas says as he pulls out his own phone to call Sam. “I promise.”

“Or die trying,” Dean replies, because it’s all he can think to say. More likely he knows, Dean’s not the one who’s going to die.

-

The debate, once they arrive at the bunker and Dean goes straight for the book, is mercifully short.

“What would we do if it was you, Sam? Or Cas? Or Me?” Dean says. “There’s no choice here. We bring the book, because they’ll know if we don’t. We just have to outsmart the fuckers and once Charlie is _safe,_ we destroy them.”

Sam and Cas are exchanging worried glances, and Dean doesn’t care. He’ll kill them all if they so much as touched her.

He already knows they have and that he will. He can’t think too hard about that though, the more he pictures Charlie broken and bleeding, the more he feels himself losing control; and honestly, he’s not concerned about the Mark right now. He’ll use it if he has to. He’s not losing any more family.

 

\--

 

“Show us Charlie and we’ll show you the book,” Sam demands.

The book isn’t far, locked in the trunk of the Impala. Cas is outside, hovering in the doorway so that he can keep an eye on the car to make sure no one sneaks around to break in, but also ready to dash into the warehouse at need. He’s their ace in the hole. The Stynes don’t know who he is, let alone that he’s an angel, and Cas doesn’t exactly exude danger- until he does. They’re counting on him being underestimated.

Best case, they get to bring Charlie outside to collect the book. Worst case, Cas brings it inside and is standing at Charlie’s side when the shit hits the fan.

Dean’s already pissed that this is even happening, that these Styne douchebags hurt her _again_. That anger is absolutely eclipsed when they bring Charlie out.

Charlie looks like she has one foot in the grave and Dean would know. He takes in every visible injury, matting of blood, the way she can barely stand as one of the Stynes drags her in. He can see the way bones were snapped, nerves pierced; the work is sloppy, but it was clearly intended to cause maximum pain. Despite that, there’s a defiance in her eyes that shows her spirit isn’t broken. As pleased as Dean might be to see that spark, the rest of it drowns Dean’s vision in red and black.

He’s going to tear their whole family apart, root and branch. He’s going to obliterate them from the face of the earth. For every wound Charlie received, he’s going to snuff out a life. Everything they love will die.

The Mark sends a thrum of pleasure up his spine and Dean’s expression goes deadly still, calm, resolved.

“Red here has given us a lot of trouble, plus she didn’t want to give you all up.” The Styne in charge is talking justifications as a taunt, but Dean doesn’t care. He’s a dead man talking.

“Let’s take this out to the car,” Sam says. He’s clearly furious too, but he’s also focused on the plan.

“I don’t think so,” the Styne replies. “Your friend can bring it here. You killed our brothers, we’re not taking any chances.”

The men on the upper walkway adjust their guns, a few of them grin.

_Cas_ , Dean thinks/prays at the angel. _Bring it in._

Let the Stynes wonder how they’re communicating. Every advantage they have is a good one.

Dean gives Sam a nod and the Styne leader is looking like he’s about to ask what’s taking so long when Cas walks in holding the box.

Dean ignores the look Cas is giving him, like the angel knows what he plans to do and doesn’t approve. As if he’s one to judge. Cas’s death count is the highest of the three, after all.

Cas turns his attention fully to the task at hand. He walks right up to Charlie, places a comforting hand on her cheek. Nothing seems visibly healed, that would cause suspicion, but Dean can see some of the pain lifted from her eyes.

Cas hands over the box with a look of utter indifference that is a Castiel special and pulls Charlie into his arms.

“Ah ah,” the Styne admonishes. “No moving yet.” Guns are focused onto Castiel, and Dean’s rage thrums to be released. He’s noted the location of all enemies, weapons, whom seem to be paying better attention. The problem is Sam and Charlie. Dean and Cas should be fine even if they take a few bullets.

Dean’s formulating a plan that involves drawing all the attention to himself when the box is opened and time freezes.

_Use me. Destroy them all! Unleash the darkness._

Dean can feel the Book of the Damned, hear its voice. The Mark reaches out from his arm, a cold, deathly tingling spreading out through his fingers towards the book. Dean finds his arm raising toward it without his permission. He doesn’t fight it though, can feel the intention, how it matches with his own.

There’s something familiar about this. It feels a little like during the fight with Abbadon. Like when he summoned the First Blade to his hand. It’s a power he doesn’t understand, but somehow knows how to use. The pull isn’t as strong as towards the Blade, but the promise of destruction and death is somehow larger, grander.

He doesn’t remember the book flying to his hands, barely hears the shouts of confusion.

_Unleash the Darkness!_

The book speaks it, Dean thinks it, and a burning, incomprehensible power rushes from the Mark of Cain, up his arm, into the Book of the Damned and _out._ Dark clouds like demon smoke rush out from the book in his hands. The pain in Dean’s arm is searing at best, but the clouds stream out towards every Styne in the room and the pain Dean feels is nothing compared to their agony.

Flesh melts from bone, death from a million cuts. Screams of agony surround Dean in a way he hasn’t heard since hell. Flesh, sinew, bone and organs, Dean can recognize the sounds of the different slices, the way their bodies are carved apart. Blood sprays so fast from so many different wounds that it mists the air.

It’s over too soon, power receding into the book, back up Dean’s arm. It’s pure bliss, euphoria, satisfaction. The darkness wound through him is so very, very pleased.

_My good boy._

Dimly, Dean sees the pulped remains of the bodies surrounding him. Slurry of what was once human form. Cas lies protectively over Charlie and he’s painted in splatter, was too close to the leader.

Sam is throwing up.

Dean doesn’t care. There are still Stynes in the world left to kill.

Dean turns to leave, heading for the Impala.

“Dean,” Cas’s voice. “The book.”

Cas wants him to leave the book. The Book of the Damned doesn’t hold the same appeal as the First Blade. Its kills are effective but impersonal. Something in the book even doesn’t want him to bring it along. As if it’s gotten what it wanted from Dean and now it thinks remaining behind is a better bet to accomplishing its goals.

That’s fine. Dean would rather his next kills be more personal.

He drops the book to the floor mid-step and keeps on walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, Criticism and Kudos fuel my creativity.
> 
> Love you all!


	5. Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean knows the best time to approach is night, so he parks the Impala a couple miles away and takes a nap. He’s not terribly surprised when he’s awoken by the passenger door being opened and Sam kicking his legs out of the way so he can fold his way into the seat. Dean rubs his face back to life.
> 
> “Bitch,” he mumbles on instinct.
> 
> Sam proceeds to deliver a facial expression so full of irritation you could read it from the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: mental health triggers
> 
> Sorry for the delay. Combination of struggling with Sam's voice, and real life issues.

If the Stynes wanted to stay hidden, they shouldn’t have gotten so many buildings named after them. It doesn’t take much more than a Google search for Dean to determine that Shreveport, Louisiana is his best bet. It’s about a 10 hour drive from Lebanon, Dean figures he can swing 6 if he can avoids traffic and flouts the speed limit. Still, he doesn’t want them to know he’s coming.

He ends up arriving mid-morning, later than he wanted thanks to construction, and parks the Impala to pull up Google Earth with the hope it might give him a better idea of where the soon-to-be-extinct family make their home. The problem is that Louisiana has a lot of old, large properties that could be likely targets.

Dean knows, distantly, that he should be more tired than he is. It’s been over 24 hours since he left on the ghost hunt with Cas and while Dean has certainly done more with less, he usually still _feels_ it. Now all he feels is purpose, strength, power.

Dean finds what he is pretty damn sure is their base of operations. Talking to the locals is illuminating. No one knows that much about the Stynes except for that they’re rich and “pretty much” run the town. They do, however, know where home base is, because most people are afraid of getting close.

Dean knows the best time to approach is night, so he parks the Impala a couple miles away and takes a nap. He’s not terribly surprised when he’s awoken by the passenger door being opened and Sam kicking his legs out of the way so he can fold his way into the seat. Dean rubs his face back to life.

“Bitch,” he mumbles on instinct.

Sam proceeds to deliver a facial expression so full of irritation you could read it from the moon.

Dean yawns, stretching his arms as much as he can in his baby. His shirt rides up and the Mark slides into view.

“How’s Charlie?”

Dean knows Charlie is fine, he left her in Cas’s care. Sam should have stayed behind too, to say the things that need to be said.

“Cas healed her and took her back to the bunker,” Sam replies. “She’s shook up, who wouldn’t be?”

Dean hears the implication loud and clear: anyone would be upset with seeing human beings reduced to slurry in the span of moments. Dean’s just not. He thinks he will be, when this is over, maybe. His instinct towards cracking jokes wants to mock Sam for losing his lunch, but Sam would probably just flip his shit.

“Dean, I need you to listen to me,” Sam says.

Dean rolls his eyes around to stare at Sam’s face. The familiar feel of leather, Baby’s contours, is soothing. A large part of Dean wants to kick Sam out so that he can get on with what he has to do, but it’s Sam and so Dean gives him time to say his piece. The Mark grumbles unhappily but it seems to have learned to choose its battles and Dean’s intention is not to be swayed anyway.

“I know you only did what you felt you had to, you wanted to save Charlie.” So far, so true. “But Charlie’s safe now and she’s worried about you.”

“No.”

“No?” Sam’s doing that high-pitched incredulous thing he does.

“She’s not safe, Sam. Won’t be until they’re all dead. They’ll keep coming for the book, for us, for Charlie.” And Dean knows it’s true, Sam should too.

“So we treat this like a hunt, Dean.” Sam has just a touch of franticness in his voice now and Dean finds it grating. “We go get Charlie and Cas, and any other hunters that will help and we take them on together.”

“I don’t need help to do this,” Dean is certain of that. “So I’ll say it again: you can help, or you can get the hell out of my way.”

“Dean, if you do this… Wiping out entire families is what Cain was doing. Are you going to kill innocent children too?!”

And now Dean really wishes they weren’t in the Impala. It’s hard to get a good swing going for a punch. How dare Sam bring up Cain? Dean’s legs twitch, the Impala feels constricting in a way he’s not used to, his limbs are restless with the urge to pace. It builds so quickly that he finds himself sliding out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut with perhaps a touch of excessive force.

“And give them time to regroup? To hide?” Dean demands angrily. “Right now they don’t know I’m coming. There’s a small window where we have the element of surprise. Fuck, Sam, we’re _here._

Sam gets out of the Impala too, though he shuts the passenger door with considerably less force.

“Charlie doesn’t want this,” Sam says and a small part of Dean twinges in response. The part of him that has been fighting for so long, whose mantra has been ‘for Charlie’ stirs, struggling against the dark tendrils wrapped around it. “It’s not worth losing you over, Dean. We care about you, and if you do this we might lose you forever.”

Dean lets out a huff of annoyance, but he hesitates long enough for Sam to keep pushing.

“Please Dean, come home to us. Charlie, Cas, we all just want to help you.”

“What makes you think I _want_ your help?”

“That’s not you talking Dean, it’s the Mark.”

Dean stops, thinks. It’s true that he can feel the Mark urging him on, darkness bleeding in around his soul... And yet… He feels better right now than he has in ages. He feels defined, purposeful, righteous. Dean knows there should be more guilt, agony, but when he tries to reach for it all he can see is Charlie, suffering, so close to dead. He’d sworn he’d never see her hurt again, by his own hand or anyone else’s. The monsters who did this to her, who would do it again, need to be removed from the table. It’s not wrong to kill monsters.

Killing monsters is what he does. Who he is.

“Killing monsters is what I do, Sam. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, you can’t.” Sam is moving around the car, clearly trying to appear casual. “You’ve resisted the Mark for so long, you can’t give up now.”

“Hate to break it to you Sam, but I’ve been a lost cause since Cain,” Dean says. “This is happening, deal with it.”

“If I can’t stop you then fine, I’m going with you.”

Dean stands frozen for a moment, briefly torn. Sam is being so _Sam_ , with that familiar stubborn set of his jaw. Dean should be glad, he’d won the argument. Naturally, part of him is always happy to have Sam along. There is no reason to do this alone. In fact, Sam could only make the hunt easier. Plus, Sam has a stake in this. He cares about Charlie too.

But the thought of it... The idea that Sam would only get in the way wriggles in his skull. The reasons are insufficient to justify it, but the feeling builds and builds, trying to pull him away. Dean feels like lava flowing into the sea. Heat and passion slowly flowing into the cold and wet, hardening him from the outside into something strong and yet porous. Everything human slipping out in rivulets. But his passion still burns hot at the centre, his humanity sustains him even as the icy cold hardens around him.

The taste of blood fills Dean’s mouth and in a blink he’s back in the bunker, Sam collapsing to the floor before him. Sam’s crimson life pours and spurts from the ragged gash in his throat. Dean feels each spray, pumped by a failing heart, splashing across his skin. Dean spits the wad of Sam’s flesh from his mouth, watching with pride as the skin and blood splats with a wet slap on the tiled floor.

“Dean,” Sam’s last word is gurgled through the foam of air and blood choking his airways.

Dean rolls the hammer in his hand, grip comfortable and relaxed. One swing shatters ribs, the next unhinges Sam’s jaw and then there’s nothing but blood, and guts and-

“ _Dean!_ ”

Dean blinks and Sam is alive, concern in his eyes, holding Dean’s shoulders, neck just _there_.

Dean sinks down, trying to clear the image from his eyes. He can’t let Sam come with him, he can’t. The Mark burns and it wants Sam dead so badly and Dean can’t trust himself, he _can’t_. He’s still blinking the blood out of his eyes when Sam, hale and whole, is kneeling before him, a tinge of fear in every line of his face, the clench of each muscle.

There’s really only one option.

Dean rises in an instant, boot catching Sam in the gut just hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He’s behind Sam in the next instant, wrapping his arm around Sam’s neck in a sleeper hold and by the time Sam might have gotten his breath back from the first blow, he was already weakening from the sleeper hold.

“Sorry Sam, can’t have you with me.” Dean really is sorry, even though this is necessary. Hurting Sam now is better than killing him, no question. Cain may have said it would be a progression ending with Sam, but Dean isn’t taking any chances.

Sam struggles mightily given Dean has caught him completely by surprise. The dark power curled around Dean’s muscles make the end a foregone conclusion. Time was a fight between the brothers would have been much more even. Dean’s combat skills had been sharper since purgatory, but Sam was no slouch. Now Sam doesn’t stand a chance. No one does.

Dean feels Sam lose consciousness, but it’s absolutely possible that he’s faking. Dean glances around. He’d picked a pretty secluded spot, and it’s now dark out, but he was still lucky no one had come by yet. Confident Sam is now safely unconscious and steadfastly ignoring the urging of the Mark to keep going until Sam is dead (the Mark is getting plenty of blood today, it has no reason to complain), Dean drags Sam’s stupidly large unconscious body behind a stand of bushes. It’s warm enough that he’ll be fine lying in the grass for a while and no one should see him unless they are practically on top of him.

Dean double checks that Sam’s pulse is strong enough and his breathing even, before getting back in the Impala and taking off. Time to go kill some Stynes.

 

\--

 

For all the trouble they’ve caused, all the damage, all the power they claimed, the Stynes are surprisingly easy to kill. Sure, they’re tough, but a bullet to the brain kills them dead just the same as any normal human. A few of them get close, but that just means their deaths are all the more brutal and bloody.

By the time Dean is finished he’s splattered in blood like some abstract painting. As he paces out of the large and extravagant home he’s dimly aware of stepping over a body that is smaller than the rest, but it fails to register. Instead he’s thinking of how there must be a tracker on the Impala. Sam could only have found him by LoJack and Dean doesn’t intend to be found again unless he wants to be.

Dean swaps out his shirt for one not covered in blood. He should find himself a motel, shower, deal with all the bloodstains; but, most of the damage is taken care of with a quick change of shirts and he isn’t feeling all that tired. He should be, he should be exhausted, but he isn’t.

In fact, Dean’s mind wanders away from all the places he’d once have thought it _should_ and instead lands on the one object he currently desires more than anything: The First Blade.

Castiel hid the Blade, sure, but without his wings, and given the timeline involved, it was probably not all that far from the bunker. Unless Cas had managed to sneak it off to heaven, the Blade should be findable. Dean had given the Blade to Castiel because he trusted him more than Crowley, but now he wonders if that hadn’t been his only reason, if he knew it would be easier to retrieve.

The easiest route would be to cast the spell to find the Blade; unfortunately, that spell requires rare ingredients, particularly the essence of Kraken. Crowley has some, but Crowley would know what it’s for and he’s a slippery bastard. There might be some ingredients, maybe everything he needs in the bunker, but that almost certainly means getting through Cas and Charlie. His odds are better as long as he beats Sam back, but Cas would definitely be a problem and Charlie is resourceful enough to cause serious trouble.

Dimly he registers the thought that going home to Cas and Charlie is a good thing. He should really go pick up Sam, go home with him. The job is done, Charlie avenged, hunt completed. The thoughts arise, but there is no weight to them, no importance. They felt like vaguely interesting, mostly boring news stories on the radio. Background noise.

Dean drives north, not certain where exactly he’s heading. He’s on the road less than an hour when he realizes that driving directly between Lebanon and Shreveport isn’t the best way to stay under the radar. If anyone else is on the road the Impala is very distinctive, easy to spot. So Dean detours to the east through Arkansas.

Dean’s nearly to Missouri when he finds himself yawning. The power shooting through his nerves wants him to push forward, but Dean’s craving a drink, his skin itches in places where spots of blood are still drying and he can’t think why he should be in any particular hurry. The Mark pouts, but Dean pulls over at another shitty motel anyway. Driving the past few hours has left Dean time to think and he’s not fond of the images his mind is throwing out at him. They’re fuzzy, but unsettling, and a pair of young eyes keeps appearing in the corners of his vision.

He makes sure there’s no visible blood on his person, gets a room, and throws himself directly into the shower.

Dean’s used to showering off blood. Hunts are messy and if the blood isn’t your own there’s often plenty from your quarry. Digging graves isn’t exactly tidy work and anything that needs to be beheaded is guaranteed to cause a mess. This though… The hot water is normally soothing, but the red rivulets pouring off his body, circling down the drain, feel different, wrong.

Dean’s being torn in two. The Mark’s darkness pulls him to violence, death, and the Blade – it revels in blood. What’s left that Dean recognizes as himself is writhing in pain. He’s losing control and he’s ok with it (who needs control?), except he’s also absolutely not. He wants the Blade and he knows that’s the worst thing he can possibly do. He knows he knocked Sam out for his own safety, but he’d left his brother unconscious in a ditch. How could he do that?

Dean’s guts roil and even though his stomach is all but empty he stumbles out of the shower, blood still running down out of his hair, down his face, and hurls what little is left in his stomach out into the toilet. He feels feverish, chilled, like food poisoning is wreaking havoc and his system is trying to purge everything causing harm. But there’s nothing he can purge, the poison is burned in his arm, corrupting his veins, and there’s no getting rid of it.

He needs a drink.

\--

Dean is about a quarter of the way through the bottle when he falls back on his bed, stares at the ceiling and lets out a big sigh. He is being torn in two, no… He is losing himself, being drowned in darkness, but it’s so hard to care. Except, knowing that he has trouble caring is stirring up enough concern to make him feel like he is losing grip on reality.

He needs solid ground, but all he has is the bottle and the dark chill that is slowly making him numb. He needs…

He _needs_.

He can’t…

This numbness is paralyzing. Even his self-hatred, which could always be counted on to allow Dean to do the right thing no matter what, has receded. The darkness is grafting itself to his bones, weaving itself into his soul and whispering incomprehensible but calming words into his mind.

Killing the Stynes had crossed another line and the way back was crumbling away, road sinking into the abyss behind him.

Sam’s words echo back at him. “ _Wiping out entire families is what Cain was doing. Are you going to kill innocent children too?!_ ” A flash of too young eyes and Dean’s running to the bathroom and puking up all the whiskey in his stomach.

_Help me, please._

The thought wasn’t directed at anyone, was just an aimless, desperate plea to the universe.

_I don’t know who I am anymore._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so mean to Dean, I know.
> 
> Hopefully I'll be back on schedule next Thursday with part 6: Castiel. =D


	6. Castiel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You prayed for me.” Cas fails to explain with utmost sincerity.
> 
> “No I didn’t.” Dean shoots back instantly, because he would definitely remember that.
> 
> “It doesn’t have to be a formal prayer. I can also feel longing,” Cas explains with his typical factual tone, not understanding the implication of his words. Dean takes an involuntary step back, giving Cas the chance to slip by him into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to Jen for wrangling my commas.

Dean is woken from a fitful, restless sleep by the sound of insistent knocking on the motel door. Years of hunter instincts have him fully alert in seconds and reaching for the gun under his pillow. Monsters don’t generally knock, but it’s always best to be prepared.

Dean runs a hand through his hair, yawns, and checks at the peephole.

Huh.

Dean opens the door, bewildered. How the heck had Cas found him?

“Dean,” Castiel says with obvious relief.

“Cas, how?” _How the hell did you find me?_

“You prayed for me.” Cas fails to explain with utmost sincerity.

“No I didn’t.” Dean shoots back instantly, because he would definitely remember that.

“It doesn’t have to be a formal prayer. I can also feel longing,” Cas explains with his typical factual tone, not understanding the implication of his words. Dean takes an involuntary step back, giving Cas the chance to slip by him into the room.

_Longing?_ Dean’s mind freezes and then starts spinning. On the one hand he didn’t remember feeling anything resembling longing last night. On the other, he has to fight off a blush because oh crap, he’s definitely had some thoughts in the past that he had been counting on taking to his grave. The idea that Cas might have known all this time…

There was really only one way for Dean Winchester to react to something that embarrassing: go on the offensive.

“Well there was that seriously hot chick that turned _this_ down last night but I mean, really Cas? Kinda pervy.”

Cas flashes Dean his most withering head-tilt and glare. Dean gulps reflexively, there is some serious anger behind those eyes.

“Must you lie when we both know the truth?” Cas demands. “You’re afraid and you need a friend. There’s no shame in that.”

How is Dean supposed to respond to that? This is definitely turning into a chick flick moment, but Cas never did understand boundaries – physical or otherwise. Speaking of, Cas is putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder in that old familiar way.

“You’re not alone, Dean.”

The Mark burns unexpectedly and Dean pulls back with a hiss.

“She doesn’t like you, Cas.” The words slip out without Dean fully understanding why.

“She?” Cas frowns and honestly, it’s adorable.

“The Mark, it… Sometimes it feels like a jealous lover.”

Jealous of Cas, what he means to Dean, what he could be. The more Dean thinks of Cas, of those deep forbidden feelings, it’s like colour coming back into the world. The cold that has been creeping into Dean’s soul suddenly has competition from the warmth and affection in his heart. Even unrequited, the feelings have never died.

“May I?” Cas asks for once. At Dean’s nod Cas puts his fingers to Dean’s forehead. Dean tries not to stare at those fingers, he’s sure the cross eyed gaze isn’t flattering. For a moment nothing happens, and then Dean feels the burn of grace, a burn he’s only felt once before.

“Already half demon, huh?” Dean will not cry. He won’t. He doesn’t even know where the impulse is coming from. “You should leave before I hurt you, Cas. Look what I did to Sam already.”

Of course he’s already so tainted that Cas’s grace can’t touch him without burning. Dean knows what he’s done. He deserves this.

“Sam is fine. He texted after he woke up. He’s just worried about you Dean.”

And probably about to do something stupid. Dean makes a mental note to head that off at the pass.

“You don’t know, Cas. What I’ve done.”

“What the Mark made you do.”

“You think it’s that simple? I had a choice, Cas.”

“A choice made under the influence of an ancient evil is no choice at all.”

Dean starts to shake. Too-young eyes hover in his vision and he _can’t_ disregard that. The day he doesn’t care about hurting kids is the day he goes full demon and deserves it.

And then Cas is hugging him.

“Please let me help you.”

The Mark may hate Cas, but it has also lowered Dean’s inhibitions. What might have seemed impossible before is suddenly within Dean’s grasp. It is, in its way, far too like being a demon, but there’s also something blazing white hot inside of Dean and it’s the most human he’s felt in days.

Dean throws caution to the wind and cups Cas’s jaw in his hands, swooping in for a kiss. Cas is clearly too stunned to react, but it’s ok. Even if this is all he ever gets, Dean will treasure it as long as he can. Use it as armour for his heart.

Dean pulls back and the look of surprise and wonder on Cas’s face is so adorable that Dean can’t help going in for another kiss. He’s wanted this for so long, denied that it would ever be possible. He’s screwing up things with his best friend, but Dean can feel the blood pumping hot through his veins and it’s just so damn good to _feel_ again. Fear of rejection and the burn of passion are good and bad, are equally amazing when the alternative is nothing at all.

The Mark burns in response with a fury Dean has rarely experienced, but the Mark’s anger only fuels Dean to keep going. Screw the Mark, screw Cain, screw his manly image. What does it matter when he’ll be a demon again soon anyway?

Dean cards a hand through Cas’s hair, tugging just enough to pull a moan from Cas’s delicious lips, and his angel is kissing back now and it’s _amazing_. He’s clumsy and inexperienced but makes up for it with unexpected enthusiasm. Dean’s other hand rests on Cas’s hip, familiar feel of his trench coat covering the unfamiliar feel of hip bone and it’s all just so damn amazing.

The Mark is burning hotter now than he’s ever felt before, than he thought possible, and Dean whimpers into Cas’s lips before pulling back to slap a hand over the now blinding pain, like acid in his veins. Dean’s old friends with pain but something about this gets past his defences, triggers reflexes he thought he had under control.

“Fuck,” he say, even as the pain slowly recedes, though it doesn’t vanish entirely.

“Dean,” Cas’s voice gets Dean’s renewed attention. The poor bastard looks entirely off balance – _still got it_ – and his hair is now well and truly a mess. He looks like he wants to say something but can’t find the words, or the courage. Probably the words, Cas only ever lacked for courage when he was hell-crazy and even then he found it eventually.

Fuck the Mark. Dean will play through the pain now that he knows how bad it gets, if only it means he can _feel._ Pain is better than numb, and Cas, Cas is forbidden fruit dangling by his lips and Dean has never been great at impulse control anyway.

Dean grabs Cas’s coat by the lapels and shoves him into the wall, pressing their bodies together, relishing the warmth. He silences whatever Cas starts to say with lips and tongue and teeth. He loosens his grip on the coat, reaching down with his left to pull Cas’s shirt from his pants, desperately trying to get at skin. God, he hasn’t felt this good in _months_.

Warm skin gives under his hand and gives and gives, warm hot blood runs down his arm, delicious fire in his veins. Cas’s heart, so strong and yet so easily broken, rests in Dean’s fingers and he smirks, eyes flashing black, as he grips hard, _yanks_. He can taste its flesh on his tongue already and-

**_NO!_ **

“No, no, no, no, NO!” Dean stumbles backwards in horror, blinks and _Cas_ \- Cas is fine. Shirt rumpled, concern or maybe a touch of fear written all over him, but blessedly unharmed.

_A vision, it was just a vision._

Dean tries to control his breathing, to get back his sense of calm, but he can’t when it still feels like Cas’s blood is all over his hand and arm, beating heart struggling to break free- and Cas is getting closer, his mouth is moving but all Dean can hear is a whining buzz, a whistling kettle, horror in sound form.

What was he thinking? He knows the Mark is a jealous mistress. Of course he can’t have this. He didn’t deserve it before and he certainly doesn’t now. Not now when one slip of control could mean- Could mean…

Cas is too close, too close!

“ ** _NO!_** ” Cas flies backwards, pinned against the wall, wide blue eyes full of horror. Horror at what Dean is becoming, has become.

He can’t breathe. He needs to leave, now.

Dean flees, flinging open the door, practically flying to the Impala.

He picks a direction at random and drives.

-

The direction he picked, in retrospect, might not have been random at all. Dean finds himself back in Kansas before long, but he’s not headed for Lebanon. No, something is driving him towards Lawrence. As realization dawns, Dean momentarily stops breathing, hands gripping the wheel for dear life.

_Breathe my warrior, you’ll be whole again soon._

The darkness deep within the Mark slithers up his arm and around his shoulders like an embrace, filling him with strength. Dean can’t see anymore why he should fight this. He needs to save what strength he has left for the more important battles. To keep his loved ones alive.

Dean skirts around town, thankfully, following the dark instinct within. He focuses on the road, on speculating about his destination, because it’s better than thinking about what happened with Cas. Too many implications and - no matter how this ends - things will never be the same.

Not that Dean expects this to end in any way that leads to a return to normal. Violence and death are far more likely.

-

Stull Cemetery.

Right, because today didn’t suck enough already.

True, this is where they beat the devil, the Angels, and made their own destiny. This is where the Apocalypse ended with a whimper instead of a bang, but it’s also where Sam jumped into the cage. Where Dean’s world ended. Until it didn’t.

Dean pulls his baby up to the exact same spot as before. He gets out and stares down at the patch of scraggly grass where the portal to hell had opened up. A figure made of smoke and shadow forms, kneels by that fateful spot. She’s vaguely female but also far too _other_ to truly have gender. Dean knows, instinctively, that this is the darkness behind the Mark. He knows she’s not really there; a trick of his eyes, his mind. The Mark is deep within him now.

She, for lack of a better term, pats the ground.

“ **Here,** ” she says. Her voice is unearthly, full of danger and death, something older and darker than even the Leviathan. “ **The hell magic hides it from you.** ”

Dean realizes why they’re here.

Oh Cas, of course. Somewhere Dean would normally never willingly return. Hidden by different ancient magic, one even more powerful.

_Maybe the Cage could contain me?_ Terrifying, but practical. As long as Lucifer doesn’t escape in the process.

Dean kneels in the space the Darkness indicated. As much as he knows that this will in no way help his struggle, now that he knows what’s buried beneath the earth he can’t resist. Not when it’s so _close_. The grass seems undisturbed but Cas has his talents. Maybe this is one of them.

With bare hand, Dean digs. A shovel would be more practical, easier, and there’s more than one in the trunk, but this feels right. Scrabbling through the soil with his fingers, dirt embedding itself under his nails. Digging out of his grave in reverse. Until his hand finds bone. Not the bone of a human corpse, oh no, the much-missed jawbone of an ancient donkey.

The First Blade sings in his grip as he rips it from the soil. The connection between the Mark and the Blade forms, seals, and that comforting feeling of power settles in Dean’s bones, his muscles, his nerves. The perfect weapon for the perfect warrior.

Together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short one, but I hope the substance made up for it.


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look at Charlie, Sam and Castiel

The mood in the bunker is awkward and morose.

Being tortured wasn’t an entirely new experience for Charlie, but even her time in Oz hadn’t prepared her for being in the hands of someone who really just wanted to cause pain – information was clearly secondary. At least Castiel had been there to heal her – awesome. At least Castiel had sheltered her from the gore that followed. As soon as she was physically well the view and the smell had her throwing up. One shouldn’t know what it’s like to see another human being put through a blender, no matter how douchey those humans were.

The drive back to the bunker had been filled with silence.

Charlie’s pretty sure she’s only as ok as she is right now for three reasons. First, it’s gonna fuel her nightmares for years to come, repression for-the-win. Second, being healed so completely has left her feeling almost like it never happened, that it really was a dream. And third, Castiel, super-cute angel of the lord, seems so distressed that Charlie’s protective instincts have all kicked in and taken over.

“You know we’ll get him back, right?” Charlie says with all the conviction she has.

Castiel looks up from the lore book he’s been staring blankly at for the last ten minutes at least. Charlie will admit his poker face is good but there is still a brief flash of something worried.

“I know we will.”

“But?” Charlie prompts, knowing there’s more. “C’mon, we’re besties now and Dean’s like a brother to me. No holding back!”

“But, I’ve seen where this path leads, and this time might be even worse.”

“How so?”

“Last time Dean hadn’t had the Mark of Cain that long before he was killed. The Mark made him a demon to keep him alive. He was a demon but he was still at war with the Mark.”

“But if he could do what he did with the Book of the Damned…” Charlie murmurs.

“Exactly. If he turns again stopping him will be much harder and I don’t know how much good curing him will do.” Castiel is clearly putting on his strong face, but Charlie can hear the hint of pain in his voice.

“So back to Plan A, use the Book of the Damned to remove the Mark.”

“It might be the only chance he has…” and now there’s no hiding the sadness. Castiel looks so distraught that Charlie feels she just has to give him a hug. So she does.

“How long have you been in love with him?” She asks once she’s done.

“… What?” The panicked look in his eyes would be only adding to his cuteness factor if Castiel wasn’t clearly in such distress.

“I know my lovesick expressions. The Winchesters might be blind to all things emotional, but I’m not.”

“I can’t- I’m not-“ Castiel tries to protest, but Charlie cuts him off.

“CAS-TI-EL. The longer you deny it, the worse you’ll feel.”

Castiel’s face falls. “It doesn’t matter, Charlie. Dean is my friend and that’s more than I deserve.”

“God, you two really need to get over your inferiority complexes. You think you don’t deserve him? Right now I bet you anything he feels exactly the same about you.”

Castiel makes a disgruntled noise full of doubt. “Even if you were right, this vessel is male.”

“Sexuality isn’t that simple, Cas. Dean once talked me through flirting my way past a male guard, you know. Plus, given when I read about John Winchester’s parenting style I wouldn’t be surprised if Dean was seriously repressed. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. How long?”

Cas shrugs, “It’s taken me a long time to understand human emotion. I still struggle with it even after spending time as one of you.”

“But if you had to guess?” Charlie prompts.

“Somewhere between when I pulled his soul from hell, and when I rebelled for him.”

Well shit, so basically this entire time. Boys, human or not, so ridiculous.

“We’ll get him back, Cas. And then I will personally whack him over the head with a clue-by-four.”

\--

As expected, Charlie dreams.

_“I’m so sorry,”_ Dean’s shame after he’d nearly killed Charlie. Bruised jaw, bleeding lip, eye beginning to blacken.

_“I love you, Charlie.”_ Echoes of words past, of feelings still present but smothered as Dean dispassionately snapped her arm.

All the horrible things Dark Charlie did, maybe she deserved this, but not from Dean. Dean who was already more lost than Charlie ever was. Even split into light and dark, she could understand her other half.

Good Charlie was Charlie with her conscience turned up to 11. ‘Hacking is bad’ was a thought regular Charlie hadn’t had since she started. It wasn’t bad if you broke in just to look around. It wasn’t bad if you stole from bad people and gave that money to good causes. She was just a modern day Robin Hood without the rep. Charlie didn’t need the world to know how awesome she was, she knew.

And that was where Dark Charlie sprang from, Ego.

Dark Charlie knew she was “dark” by comparison, but never felt like she was doing anything wrong. Dark Charlie did what had to be done. She was smart and strong, had no fear, nothing holding her back.

Dark Charlie had seen the darkness in Dean, but she’d underestimated the driving force behind it. In the past, she was sure when Dean had given in to his darker nature it had been controlled, tempered by good deep down in his soul. His moral code had only shifted, never entirely vanished. The Mark, however, was fuelled by somethings remorseless, soulless. No hidden nugget of good, just power, blood and death. She could see the empty violence in his eyes as he pulled his fist back for another blow, wondered if this would be the last.

Dark Charlie, saviour of Oz, taken down by a Winchester. Of-fucking-course.

The pain sits firm in Charlie’s memory, comes out in her nightmares, and reminds her of just what they’re dealing with. Dean unleashing the dark cloud of mulching death didn’t shock her because she already knew, had already stared down the abyss that was the Mark of Cain. Seeing it channeled through the Book of the Damned was only another expression of that emotionless void of destruction. There wasn’t any real passion it it, nothing human, and that was how Charlie knew beyond any doubt that it was not Dean, not really. Dean might be capable of true darkness, but his passion, his soul, would never vanish.

Charlie wakes from a nightmare of Dean dripping black smoke, beating her bloody, with a sigh instead of a scream.

She shuffles her way to the kitchen in search of caffeine. Castiel is nowhere to be seen, but he could be in some far flung corner of the bunker. The fact that he doesn’t need to sleep means he could have been up to anything last night. Charlie is struggling towards proper wakefulness, the world starting to come back into focus when Sam arrives.

“Any luck?” Charlie asks without really thinking about it.

“Only if you count getting sucker punched and left in a ditch luck,” Sam replies. His grimace and accompanying wince is telling once Charlie notices it. Sam rubs his jaw absently, soothing the growing bruise there.

“I’ll grab you some ice!” Charlie jogs back to the kitchen and finds several ice packs stored in there expressly for this purpose. Hunters get beat up a lot.

Sam settles at the kitchen table with the ice pack and a sigh.

\--

Castiel hesitates at the entrance to the bunker. Though the place is starting to feel more like home, he loathes the idea of explaining his failure to Sam and Charlie. Sam is generally nice to Castiel, but he does have his anger issues. Regardless, sharing his news will not be easy.

Dean is well on his way to becoming a demon, and there was nothing Castiel could do to stop him.

“Cas!” Sam exclaims as Castiel finally makes his way down the entrance steps.

“Where’d you go?” Charlie asks.

“I found Dean.”

Sam and Charlie share hopeful smiles before realizing Castiel’s expression is one of pure dejection.

Castiel makes his way to the conference table but hesitates to sit. He feels safer delivering bad news on his feet.

“I was getting through to him, but… It’s worse than we thought, he’s already part demon.”

“And you let him get away?” Sam is angry, not a surprise, and he has a point. Castiel has failed with Dean, in so many ways.

“When I… Got close it burned him. I used my grace to inspect the Mark’s progress and… Well he threw me against the wall with his mind.” They didn’t need the detailed truth. Sam wouldn’t want to hear and Charlie would, well Charlie knows too much already. Castiel had been so distracted by Dean’s advances, maybe if he had been stronger he could have stopped Dean from leaving. “By the time I recovered he was gone.”

“I’m sure you did your best, Cas.” Charlie is trying to be kind, but Castiel knows it isn’t true.

“So we get that thing off his arm, and if we have to cure him again then we do.” Sam looks a weird combination of distraught and determined. “Know any spells that can track or summon a powerful witch?”

“Strong witches are protected against tracking spells, usually. Still, a summoning might work on Dean, if his condition deteriorates. They’ve always been tricky with demons as strong as the Knights of Hell, but there might be a point where he’s demon enough but not powerful enough to resist.”

“Great!”

“We might need ingredients not found here, though,” Castiel cautioned. “If I had my wings…” He missed them so much.

“So we tap Crowley. In the meantime, Charlie, can you run a search: facial recognition, the works?”

“Already started while you were out. I’ll add some demon omens to the algorithm though.”

Charlie got to work, Sam vanished into the recesses of the bunker. Castiel sighed and followed after Sam. At least they have a semblance of a plan, and his confusing emotions can wait.


	8. Demon Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean hunts Rowena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. The reasons are varied and complicated, so all I can do is say sorry.
> 
> On the plus side, I now know that this fic will only be one more chapter. Unless I decide to include an epilogue. I'm on the fence.

Summoning Crowley is easy these days, they’ve kept all the ingredients in the trunk of the Impala for years now. Dean starts to draw a devil’s trap to accompany it and then decides against it. For starters Dean’s not afraid of Crowley anymore, especially not with the First Blade tucked up against his back. On top of that he needs Crowley to show and the King of Hell has more than enough reasons to distrust Dean. Not to mention the fact that when Dean died Sam had tried to summon Crowley and the demon had simply declined to answer. It meant this is now more of a phone call than a compulsion and it won’t hurt to be polite. Much. Dean still refuses to call him by phone, this is about establishing tone.

After Dean drops the match to the ingredients it’s a good 30 seconds before Crowley deigns to appear.

“No devil’s trap? How absurdly polite for a Winchester.” Crowley takes a sip of the glass of scotch that seems to always be attached to his hand. “I’d say you’re flirting but my luck’s never been that good.”

“Crowley! How you feeling about your mother these days?” Best to be direct with Crowley, he could natter on if you let him.

“You’re no fun, you know that. No appreciation for foreplay! How you got such a reputation as a lady’s man is beyond me.”

Dean just glares. Taking the bait would only encourage the prick.

“Fine, fine. I want her head on a pike , of course. Why? You offering?”

Perfect.

“All you gotta do is point me in the right direction.” Dean says, thoroughly casual about killing a centuries old witch.

“Almost seems too easy. Oh wait, it is. If I knew where she was she’d be dead already.” Crowley’s tone is his patented irritation and sarcasm mix.

“Alright, calm down. Doesn’t hurt to ask.” Dean hides his own irritation, mostly. Crowley’s no use to him if he can’t track down Rowena.

“Here’s the thing,” Crowley offers.  “You’re probably more competent than the demons I have hunting her and we both know she can’t kill you, but the real question is _why_? Where’s the sudden interest coming from.”

“I want her dead before she can cause more damage,” Dean replies. It is the truth, if not specific in the details. No sense telling Crowley that Sam might be trying to use her to cure the Mark. Crowley might have had a lot of fun with Dean when he was last a demon but it hadn’t exactly ended well.

“No, there’s more to it…” Crowley stops, staring intently at Dean, then he sniffs the air. Dean can’t help giving him the ‘what the fuck’ look in return. Dean is pretty sure Crowley is sniffing _him_ and that’s just not cool.

“Oh Dean, you’ve changed!” There is that smirk again. “I can smell the sulphur on you Darling.”

“Not relevant.” Of course Crowley can tell. Well, not like the news wasn’t already out. Cas has certainly already informed the gang of Dean’s new status.

“Oh it most certainly is,” Crowley crowed at him. “I know you as a demon. You don’t give a shit about saving people and you’re unreliable as fuck. So I’m gonna be needing more details before you get anything from me.”

Dean crosses his arms, pondering. Crowley is probably telling the truth about not being able to find Rowena, which means that Dean would have about an even chance going it alone. He really doesn’t want to end up running into Sam or Cas, though, which might be inevitable if he hunts the witch the old fashioned way. Worse, Sam might actually get there first, what with Charlie and her tech wizardry on his side.

So that leaves the question of what Crowley might do with the info. Worst case scenario is probably that he helps Sam instead. Normally Dean knows Crowley, for whatever reason, would pick Dean over Sam. Removing the Mark though… Removing it didn’t mean it would stop Dean from his now nearly complete transformation into demon kind, probably. Crowley would probably want Dean as a demon without the mark, easier to control. Well, fuck. Honesty was definitely out then.

“She still wants me dead, I assume. I’m just gonna get her before she can find a way to get me.” That sounds selfish enough and again it was mostly true if, again, lacking in specifics.

Crowley still looks suspicious but that isn’t unusual. Dean wonders if maybe it would be better to just kill him now. The thought certainly peaks the Mark’s interest and it would keep Crowley from spilling any secrets to Sam. The problem was what would happen to Hell if Crowley wasn’t leading it. There weren’t any powerful demons waiting to take the throne since Abbadon but there were probably plenty with ambition and none of Crowley’s restraint.

Honestly, this is all giving Dean a headache.

“You gonna help or not?”

“Well I’m vexed,” Crowley replies gesturing widely with his scotch. “I want that whore dead but somehow you always manage to screw me and not in the fun way.”

Dean shrugs. It was worth a shot and maybe leaving Crowley wanting more will pay off in the long run.

“Fine, call me if you change your mind,” Dean says as he turns to leave. “Just don’t waste my time.”

“What do you call this? I’m a busy King, you know.” Crowley calls after him, annoyed. Dean tries not to snort at that as he saunters back to the Impala, Crowley seems bored with his rule more often than not.

 

\--

 

In his solo search, the first case Dean finds that might lead him to Rowena involves a homeless woman digging her fingernails so viciously into a cop that the scratches would leave scars. Plus the beat cop would never see quite properly out of his left eye again. It sounded like Rowena’s attack dog spell and the homeless woman had fallen over dead after the attack  according to the news.

Dean arrived as FBI only to be quickly disappointed. The homeless woman had been shot, not mysteriously dropped dead as the news article had suggested. Then the autopsy revealed the cause to be actual rabies, no magic involved. Unusual, but the coroner suspected the vic had been bitten and animal control was on high alert. Nothing left for Dean to do and honestly the whining of the attacked cop had nearly driven him to murder. If not for the all the trouble murdering a cop in his hospital bed would have caused, he’s pretty sure he would have put the asshole out of his misery.

-

Dean is surprisingly good at research. Well, surprising to those who don’t really know him. Dean likes to pretend like he’s all goon but he hides a wicked  smart brain. Ideally he’d have the bunker to help.

Dean loves the bunker. He loves his dead guy robe. He loves the way the lore is organized. He loves his bedroom and the weapons on the wall. They have their own bat cave, how awesome is that? At this particular moment he’d trade all the other perks for access to the lore on how to track, trap and kill witches. Dean has a wealth of knowledge in his head but the Men of Letters had a particular emphasis on spell work that would be highly useful to him right now.

-

It isn’t long before Dean realizes that the Mark, the Darkness, something doesn’t want him to kill Rowena. It’s not as strong as the urge to kill but it’s channeling that urge into distracting him from his goal. So Dean stops pining after the lore in the bunker and redoubles his efforts to find Rowena using his own talents and resources. The Mark is distracting but it’s formless, unfocused and Dean is determined.

-

Dean finally catches up with Rowena at a hotel in New York. Apparently she has decided blending in with the crowd is a good option. She’d charmed her way into a deluxe suite under a fake name, avoided being recognized on camera. All in all she’s done a pretty good job. What she hadn’t counted on was the teenage Wiccan recognizing real magic when she saw it used on the staff. Said teenager immediately shared it with all her little Wiccan friends online, which was where Dean found his thread at last.

Security is good. Dean ponders the FBI disguise but doesn’t want to spook Rowena and have her rabbit. His FBI is good but being in New York is making him twitchy and this isn’t some small town in the middle of nowhere. The FBI actually spends time in New York. Dean’s not afraid of going to jail and the Mark briefly thrills at the idea of killing his way out of a crowded New York Precinct. In fact, the idea is so captivating that Dean finds himself planning his day around it. He could ninja up there, rip Rowena apart, make it messy. It can’t be loud, she might be incapable of killing him with her magic but she could deal damage, or escape with it. Better to rip out her throat or take her head off before she can cast anything. Ripping her throat out is riskier but certainly more rewarding. Then he can casually stroll out drenched in blood, see how far he gets.

Dean likes it. The only real danger is if there’s a hunter on the force but even then Dean’s not concerned about escaping. He got out of the bunker’s dungeon and no one knows how to trap a demon like Sammy.

Sammy’s a sour thought and Dean’s so distracted he almost misses his quarry exiting the hotel.

Dean slips through the crowd, following as casually as possible while slowly gaining ground. Ideally, Rowena will make a turn down a less crowded area, maybe a nicely deserted alley, but Dean’s decided he’s not going to wait for ideal. Rowena probably feels safe in the dense New York streets, filled with people to turn rabid. It would probably work against your standard demon, they do so love to gloat – flash the black eyes and torment their victim even if only for a moment. Dean, however, respects how much damage Rowena can do in the span of a moment.

Rowena ducks into a high-end clothing store and Dean waits outside. The storefront is all windows, easy enough to keep an eye on his prey. More importantly, the high-end nature of the store means that there are few enough people to blend in with and honestly Dean would stick out far too much to sneak up on his quarry.

Staying casually hidden while Rowena scoops up an armful of expensive dresses is more irritating than anything else. Dean’s patience is sorely tested and he’s tempted to try and find a back entrance, catch Rowena in a changing room perhaps. Instead he has discipline enough to wait until Rowena heads towards the cash. Dean chuckles to himself at the idea of her actually paying. He highly doubts that’s what’s going on and makes his way back across the street, to the blind side of the store entrance.

Rowena exits, bags hanging from both arms and turns so that her back is to Dean. Perfect.

Time slows for Dean as he weaves past the few people who managed to come between them. His hand grasps the handle of the First Blade, pulling it free, as he shoves one last person out of the way. To her credit Rowena notices the commotion but there’s not enough time to react as Dean grabs her shoulder with his left hand and plunges the Blade through her back, straight through her heart and the ancient witch is dead before she hits the ground.

The thrill of the kill thrums through Dean’s nerves, the rush of downing such powerful prey is a high beyond any other he knows. It takes a moment before the blood and death is noticed , before the screaming starts but Dean doesn’t care. He basks in the rush and the knowledge that the small part of him that still cares, still wants to save the world, is sated and then dies. The Darkness will stay caged, locked within Dean for the foreseeable future and he can give in to it’s deadly pleasure to his heart’s content.

So naturally, it’s at this moment that Dean’s stomach does somersaults. His flesh feels torn, tugged and he dissolves into the ether, one last supernatural act terrifying the crowd fleeing from him as he disappears.

\--

Being summoned is an absurdly peculiar sensation. First there is a tug somewhere in his midsection, nauseating and insistent. It shares a flavour with the compulsion of the Mark but the summoning pulls on his soul with an unassailable power. It is impossible to resist. His body… Deconstructs. The smoke of his soul becoming the smoke of his skin for an instant, pulled through the ether and rebuilt before Dean can fully comprehend what was even happening.

In another sense, Dean blinks and he’s in the familiar surroundings of the bunker’s dungeon. Even though they are behind him, Dean can feel the eyes on him. Charlie’s filled with nervous determination, endless compassion. Sam’s with brotherly love, pain and fear at what Dean has become. Cas’ with steely determination, a mask of professionalism; and barely peeking through: the boundless concern he has always felt for Dean, that connection they shared since the day they first met.

Dean clutches the First Blade, dripping with Rowena’s blood, in an easy grip as he turns to face them. He’s right about all of them, except he forgot about the effect the Blade would have. Charlie doesn’t know but Sam is vaguely horrified and angry and Cas is a perfect picture of guilt and shame.

“Should have hid it better Cas, but then I knew I had a better chance getting it back from you than Crowley.” The words are meant to wound and they clearly do. Cas’s eyes land on the floor.

“What, no smiles?” Dean asked with only a hint of gleeful mockery. “I bet you weren’t even sure that summoning would work!”

Charlie’s eyes flicker upwards at the other two.

“Well it did,” Sam replies. “You’re trapped now, so why don’t you just drop the blade?”

Dean just laughs.

“I tried so hard to keep the three of you alive and for what? This is the thanks I get? No, this is where you all make your choice. Cause I’m getting out of here. No cage can hold me forever, destruction _literally_ runs through my veins.

“I don’t blame you for doing this. You have to _try_ of course. But once I break free you can stay out of my way or you can die. Cause if you haven’t figured out yet that your survival depends on staying as far away from me as possible? Well then maybe you’re just too stupid to live.”

“Nice speech,” Charlie says purposefully. “Here’s our counter,” and she turns the valve on a hose Dean was only just noticing.

Water rushes up a makeshift array of pipes and hoses to shower Dean in a monsoon’s worth of holy water.

Dean screams in rage and pain, the sound thunderous and demonic. His entire being is on fire. He even thinks for a moment that Cas had moved forward to smite him. That this is what it feels to be destroyed by heaven’s wrath, burned to nothingness.

Castiel does move forward but it is only to use his steel grip to pin Dean’s wrist to his back and pry the First Blade from his grasp. Agony keeps Dean from fighting back, gouts of steam blinding him even as the holy water singed his eyeballs. Dean starts to numb in the extremities.

He is barely aware of being handcuffed and chained to a chair. The needle jabbed into his neck hardly even registers in comparison. At some point the water stops, save for the occasional drip. His assailants have already moved outside the circle, faces grim.

“Well fuck you too! Now you’re **all** gonna die.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!


	9. Remission Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cycle begins again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not have been possible without Johnny Cash's "Hurt". I highly suggest listening to it.

It feels worse this time. The injections are nearing their end and Dean’s feeling the warding weaken. Not that he’ll be able to escape the same way this time. For starters, they always have someone watching him.

Charlie’s the smart one. She’d gone for her headphones the minute Dean brought up Dark Charlie. She blares cheery tunes, from what Dean can hear, but her expression stays a mix of determined and concerned.

Sam has been taking the path of least resistance. Maybe it’s from doing this before, maybe because Dean doesn’t have much in the way of new ammunition, or maybe he’s convinced once again that Dean isn’t really Dean anymore. However he does it, Sam lets every awful thing that Dean can spit out roll right off him. Occasionally Sam makes a small noise of irritation, but so far he hasn’t cracked.

Dean’s about to change that.

Sam entered the dungeon and checks in with Charlie. With the changing of the guard comes the splashing of holy water (thankfully just from a flask now) and a needle to the arm. The holy water burns slightly less, but still stings something fierce. He’s mastering this new form of pain. It sears the mangled remains of his soul in ways hell had never managed. The injections, on the other hand, feel like dying. Dean knows, logically, where this feeling will lead. He’s made it through this process before, come out the other side. Not that he wants to, mind. Still, the consecrated blood feels like it’s killing him, infuses the certainty of death in his veins.

The voice is softer now.

_Fear not my warrior. You will always be mine._

“You know,” Dean hisses once the worst of it has passed (longer this time, he thinks, it’s hard to tell). “Even if you _cure_ me, it’s only temporary. Relapse is inevitable.” He borrows Cain’s terminology, it feels appropriate.

Sam just pulls out his phone, paying deliberate attention to the device. Charlie is long gone. Dean feels his way back to himself and picks up stride.

“I mean, I wasn’t a demon when I killed the Stynes.” It was killing the Stynes that pushed him over the edge, after all. “I went full psycho. Even killed a kid.”

Dean can hear, not just see, Sam go rigid. He’s been too preoccupied to follow the inevitable news storm, then.

“Charlie probably doesn’t even appreciate what I did for her.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “If you want to talk about that when you’re better I’ll be here for you Dean.”

“Wow, that is some serious denial you’ve got there Sammy.”

“I ignored Lucifer for months, Dean.” Sam meets his eye for the first time in hours. “I can handle a few hours of you doing… Whatever this is.”

Sam’s serious too. No matter what angle or tactic Dean plies for what’s left of the hour, Sam’s lips are sealed. Little bro finally got some spine somewhere along the line. Dean will just have to rip it out.

If he wants to make it happen Dean will have to act soon. He’s aching all over and sweaty all the time now in a terribly familiar way. If only he could get some alone time. His window of opportunity is opening, but it will close all too soon.

Castiel’s time as warden is Dean’s favourite. He’s more like Sam was the first time around, easy to rile up because he _engages._ Sometimes Castiel tries for Sam’s steely resolve, something Castiel is normally capable of, but the guy just cares too much. It’s adorable in a sad puppy kind of way. Dean’s been warming him up with the basic taunting, insults, guilt trips, nothing terribly special. He has a plan for Cas. Cas is his way out of here if he plays his cards right. Sure, Cas is most likely to pose a challenge in a fight, but the power of his grace leads to overconfidence and he’s the only one likely to actually set foot inside the trap.

Dean lets out a genuine groan as the worst effects of the newest injection’s effects loosen their grip. He lost consciousness that time, he’s sure of it. He’s out of time. Death approaches.

“You know, I’m cramping something awful from being in this chair so long.”

“It will be over soon enough,” Cas grumbles. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, clearly still sore from their previous discussion about the First Blade. Unfortunately, Dean’s pretty sure Cas’s next move will be to throw it in a volcano.

“C’mon Castiel,” he puts as much porn into Cas’s name as possible, drawing it out slowly. “Even a massage would be amazing.” He lays it on as thick as he can. Cas doesn’t really get subtle. Hell, he might not even get this.

Cas’s eyelids flutter, unusual reaction from him. It’s barely there, but Dean sees it. He throws out his most smouldering smile, gives Cas the come-hither eyebrow. He’s rewarded with further displays of awkwardness: averted gaze, shuffling of feet, stiff posture.

“Or we could finish what we started in that motel,” Dean purrs. He might as well go all out, he hasn’t been able to get his restraints to give enough and a fistful of blood is just around the corner. Even if he can’t turn this into an escape, he might as well enjoy his last remaining moments of guilt-free living.

“A mistake,” Cas manages. “This isn’t you.”

“Bullshit. This me is still all me. Just without the bullshit insecurities, the nagging conscience, the martyr complex.” Dean deflects the comment with conviction. “You know, all the crap that was holding me back.”

He has Cas now. Head slightly tilted, arms hanging loosely at his side.

“You’re lying.”

“Why should I lie? If boring me wasn’t such a repressed coward I’da jumped your bones years ago.

“Dean…”

“I’m here, I’m willing. Being tied up just makes it kinkier. C’mon Cas, might be your last chance.”

Cas closes his eyes, fists clenched.

“How long have you been waiting for this Cas? We’ll have such _fun_ together!”

Cas turns on the holy water.

Dean splutters and rages.

He’s desperate, trapped, furious. No matter how he struggles, screams in demonic rage and pain, not even begging can stop the final step from finding him. Sam does it, despite Dean’s genuine panic. They all know how this ends, and for his three captors it’s worth all the pain, the agony. If they could understand how they’re killing a part of him. No, not killing, amputating. Like ripping his nervous system from his body, senses, powers, parts of Dean are being torn and rent and purged.

As Dean loses consciousness for the final time with a mouthful of blood, he’s sure the agony will kill him this time. He welcomes the sweet release of death.

When he wakes up, Dean is cured

-

As soon as Dean is cured he can see the expressions of his friends and family turn from wary to sad, pitying. Dean refuses to be pitied.

He also refuses to talk to any of them and locks himself in his room as soon as humanly possible. Obviously Cas could break the door down if he wanted, but the trio respect his need to be alone, sort of. At one point each of them comes to the door, tries to get him to engage, but Dean refuses. He doesn’t deserve their friendship, and he doesn’t deserve to be saved. It won’t be long before the Mark takes over again, and by then Dean intends to be far, far away. Or dead. Preferably dead.

He waits until the middle of the night, when Sam and Charlie will be asleep, to finally creep out of his room. He moves as stealthily as he can, peering around corners and listening intently for any sign of Cas. Stupid angels not needing sleep means the guy could be anywhere, but Dean prides himself on his stealth abilities. Mostly.

Dean makes it all the way to the door to the garage, finding it infuriatingly locked, before Cas finds him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Bastard was probably waiting for Dean to try and make his escape. Dammit all!

“Going somewhere?”

Dick.

“Apparently not,” Dean answers, turning to meet Cas’s angry blue eyes. Dean tries really hard not to care. Twenty-four hours ago it would have been as easy as breathing. “You guys have the whole bunker on lockdown?”

“Sam was convinced you’d run off and do something stupid,” Cas explains. His expression is one of angry disappointment. “What’s your plan, Dean?”

Dean shrugs, lying with every fibre of his being. “No plan, just needed some space.”

Castiel clearly isn’t buying it.

That’s fine. Dean stomps back to his bedroom and slams the door, not caring who he wakes. He’ll have to be sneakier about his plan, is all. Give it more time.

\--

In the morning Dean decides to change his approach. He needs everyone off their guard, and unfortunately that means cooperating, which almost certainly means _talking_ ; but Dean’s faced down angels, demons and gods, he can put up with a little touchy-feely bullshit if it means getting the job done.

Sam is the first one to corner him, not that Sam would describe it that way. Dean goes to the kitchen for coffee and a greasy breakfast and finds his brother nursing his own cup of java, looking like he hasn’t slept a wink.

Dean can see the inner turmoil written on Sam’s face. What to say, how far to push, where to even start. Dean’s starting to think he can escape the kitchen with his coffee and eggs when Sam finally decides on a topic of conversation.

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Sam says as if they’re already in the middle of a conversation. Maybe in Sam’s head they are. “Why Rowena? Crowley told us you were after her, but not why.”

Weird place to start, but easy enough for Dean to answer.

“Rowena had to die, Sam. You would have used her to remove the Mark, and that would have set The Darkness free.”

“The Darkness? What even is that Dean?”

Dean sighs, because this is all guesswork that he didn’t want to go into. If he could just get out of here and do what needs to be done maybe he’ll get an answer for sure.

“I can feel it Sam. She’s old, impossibly old, angry, bloodthirsty, and so immensely powerful, Sam. I think the Mark is a seal, keeping her at bay, and what it does to me, that’s just a tiny fraction of a fraction bleeding through. No matter how far dark side I go, it’s better than letting her free.”

“I’ve never read anything about The Darkness,” Sam says hesitantly. Of course Sam won’t really believe anything until he’s read it in a book.

“Well no one knows what the Mark is except me, Cain and probably bloody Lucifer.” Lucifer gave Cain the Mark in the first place, after all. Whether he created it or not, he probably knew what it was. “Cain’s dead and Lucifer’s in the cage so that just leaves me.”

And Dean marches out of the room with his eggs and coffee, determined to find somewhere private to eat before they get cold.

-

At least he finishes his eggs before Charlie finds him. She’s cradling her own mug of coffee and plunks herself down across from Dean.

“It would be easy for me to hate myself for what I did.” Charlie doesn’t even say hello, maybe thinking Dean will rabbit.

“What Dark Charlie did.” Dean shoots back, because this is absolutely not the same. Except in the ways it is.

“I told you Dean, she’s me. She’s a dark, ugly part of me, but still me. From what I understand, the things you’ve done under the influence of the Mark aren’t all you, but it’s still a part of you. We all have our dark sides-“

“Ya well mine is pretty fucking dark.”

“Maybe because the other side of you is so good.”

Dean makes a noise of disgust into his coffee.

“Seriously Dean, you’re constantly willing to sacrifice yourself, mind body and soul for not only the people you love, but for innocent people, for humanity. Maybe the flip side of that capacity for good is a capacity for evil, but that doesn’t mean the evil is stronger, and it doesn’t cancel out the good.

“All I know for sure, is that you have to acknowledge your darkness, accept that part of you, or you’ll be fighting it all your life, and if you’re fighting it that means you can lose. But if you accept it, then you can control it.”

Charlie really needs to stop being so perceptive. She’s wrong, in one very important way, the Darkness’s influence is absolutely an outside force, an invader. Still, he had controlled it, for a while. Until his grief and rage took over. Cain controlled it for years, out of love, but Dean doesn’t feel he has that capacity. Certainly not in any way he’s able to control. He tried, it worked for a bit doing it for Charlie, to make amends for the pain he caused, but that spiralled out of control as soon as she was hurt.

Dean tries to remember Cain’s story. When his wife was killed he went on a killing spree too, wiping all the Knights of Hell off the face of the earth except for Abaddon. Remission, relapse, but then remission again, this time for decades. Dean has family to anchor him, but it can’t possibly be enough.

“Maybe.” He finally replies, for Charlie’s sake. “I need some more rest.”

Dean abandons the last of his coffee and heads back to his room. He needs some privacy.

What he finds is Castiel.

“Sam told me why you killed Rowena.” Cas makes room for Dean to enter, and Dean glares and heads for his bed.

“Good for him,” Dean snaps, his internal tension getting the better of him.

“You realize that if you intend to bear this burden forever, everyone you know will eventually die, everyone but me.”

“Unless you get yourself killed, again.” Dean mutters peevishly. In truth, he hasn’t considered the implications of his immortality. Just the word sounds stupid in his brain. And besides, he has enough to worry about getting through one day at a time.

“Maybe this is why I keep coming back,” Castiel suggests. It’s not like they have a better explanation. They only know for certain that God was responsible for his first resurrection.

“What, so you can watch me go off the rails again? Cain was right, there is no cure, just remission and relapse.”

“Maybe…” Cas hesitates, seemingly stealing himself. “Maybe I can help keep your remissions longer and your relapse shorter.”

A tiny alarm bell sounds in Dean’s brain. This is starting to sound like it’s headed for _emotions_. Cas is supposed to be too hesitant and new at emotions to start any truly awkward conversations. And now Cas is getting too close; only this time maybe he knows he’s infiltrating Dean’s personal space.

“Little full of yourself Cas?” Mean, but for Dean it’s self-defence. The words cause Cas to stiffen (more than usual) and hesitate.

“I-“ Cas stops, then seems to pull together some resolve. “Being cruel is a defence mechanism.” Cas speaks in an odd cadence, as if he is repeating someone else’s words.

“You’ve been talking to Charlie,” Dean accuses.

“Charlie is very smart, and very kind.” Castiel is more vehement about defending Charlie than in his own defence.

“Right, so how about you go bother her some more.” Dean pushes Cas out the door, and the angel lets him. Though Dean gets the distinct feeling that next time Cas will be back more determined than ever, Dean can surely delay that for as long as possible.

 

\--

 

It takes several days until Dean feels safe enacting his plan. Gathering the ingredients without being caught takes a further two. He’s on lockdown, though they haven’t explicitly said so. Sam and Charlie are insistent on running any errands for or with him, he doesn’t dare suggest a hunt, and Cas, who doesn’t need to sleep, keeps a steady vigil overlooking the exits. They’re afraid he’ll bolt, and he can’t blame them since he absolutely would if he could. A summoning in the bunker is less than ideal, but he doesn’t have a choice. Running at this point would mean violence, and he’s got to avoid provoking the Mark.

Dean finds himself a quiet, dusty corner deep in the bunker. It looks like it might have been a  laboratory. Not for purely science, naturally, and so he tools of magic Dean needs are all there.

Dean pauses before completing the spell. He knows this is the best thing he can do for everyone. He needs to be stopped. Still, he also needs a moment to remember the good times. He expects this death to be his last, no Heaven, no Hell, not even Purgatory, just atoms spread across the universe. He thinks fondly on LARPing with Charlie, good times with Cas, and years of his little brother becoming a better man than Dean could ever hope to be. He thinks of Charlie smiling, fingers in a peace sign; of Sam’s laugh, genuine and happy; of Cas’s lips, tasting ever so slightly of beer and the crackle of grace.

It’s too much. He can’t lose his resolve now.

The mark on his arm twinges, but it’s muffled since the cure, it’s grip loosened and weak for now. It, she, would try to stop him if she could. He can’t wait, can’t let anything stop him now.

“Dean?” Cas’s voice breaks through, coming from just down the hallway.

How?!

But he knows, in a flash, _longing_. Cas can feel longing like a prayer sent straight to him.

Fuck.

There’s no time to hide the spell components, only slide in front of them and hope he can get rid of Cas quickly.

“Dean?” Cas knocks on the door, polite, but then opens it before Dean can formulate a safe answer, rude.

“Can’t sleep?” Cas asks wryly as he enters. His gaze is suspicious. Not good.

“Cas, hey, ya, I thought I’d clean out some of these old rooms since I… I can’t sleep, and all.” It’s not Dean’s best bluff, and Cas narrows his eyes into a familiar squint. He moves into the room, forcing Dean to shift to keep blocking his view.

“Really don’t need a babysitter, Cas. I’m good, really.” And now he has to get right up in Cas’s space and it’s not enough.

“Dean, I felt-“ Cas’s eyes flic to Dean’s and for a moment Dean thinks he might have gotten away with it. Then Cas pushes him to the side, easily with his stupid angel strength. “Dean, what are you-“

And of course Cas recognizes the spell. The first time they used it was to try and stop Cas and the Leviathans after all.

“Dammit Dean!” Cas slams his hands against the table. Something cracks even with Cas clearly restraining himself.

“It’s the only way Cas.” Dean defends himself because it’s true. “I’m a killer, a monster, I need to be stopped. For good.”

“Maybe you’re a killer, but you’re not a monster or a murderer, you’re a warrior.”

“From where I’m standing that’s not different enough, Cas. Besides I… I killed a kid Cas. He might have been trapped, innocent, and I didn’t care.” Dean turns, dangerously close to tears and unwilling to show it. “Death is the only answer.”

“No!” Cas shouts the word, startling Dean into turning back to face him. “You refused to give into destiny before. I gave up! When I lost faith you were there for me. You’re not a monster Dean. You’re cursed, and all curses can be broken. Until we find a cure we’ll – I’ll just stay by your side. I have faith in _you_ Dean. I’ve seen your soul at it’s worst, I know who you really are.”

“Cas-“

Cas puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders.

“Dean Winchester is brave, strong, loyal, fierce. He thinks he doesn’t deserve to be saved, but after all the people _he’s_ saved who deserves it more?” Cas’s left hand moves up to Dean’s neck, cupping the side of his head. “Let me share your burdens Dean. Let me carry your faith.”

And then Cas is kissing him, and Dean has a meltdown. All his pent-up feelings, fears, things he didn’t realize were inside him burst out into tears.

“Dean I-“ Cas looks faintly ashamed, like Dean is crying because the kiss is unwelcome.

This moment is bad enough without scaring away the best thing to ever happen to him. Dean throws himself into Castiel’s arms, clinging tight and burrowing his sobs in Cas’s neck.

Cas seems to get it, after a moment of awkward confusion he hugs back with reassuring strength and Dean can just hear a muffled, “Hugs are good too.”

It makes Dean laugh, despite it all.

This thing with Cas, whatever it turns out to be, he wants to explore it. Maybe it _will_ help stave off relapse, maybe it won’t. Either way, Death can wait for now, he’s only a spell away. For now, Dean is taking something good for himself.

He doesn’t deserve it, and the road ahead is likely filled with more blood, violence and death, but maybe, just maybe, with his angel at his side things will be different this time.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s room for a little hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck through my lengthy breaks to see this to the end. I hope you all enjoyed it and that it was worth the wait.


End file.
